


Just Married

by gabrielstolethetardis



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Adults, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Co-workers, Communication is key but neither of them have it, Coran is there I promise he's just watching it all play out, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Marriage, Gay Keith (Voltron), Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lance (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Langst, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, kind of, klance, klangst, marriage AU, non-binary Pidge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielstolethetardis/pseuds/gabrielstolethetardis
Summary: Based off ofthis prompt:Anyone not married by age 25 gets a spouse assigned to them by the government. Keith is fine with that: most matches are a success, and it’s less effort for him. But it’s his 25th birthday and he’s just found out his match—and it’s Lance McClain





	1. Chapter 1

              Keith stumbles downstairs the morning of his 25th birthday to the smell of burning toast and a letter on the kitchen table. The toast is normal; Shiro hasn’t yet taken the hint that he’s a horrid cook. The letter isn’t, and Keith’s stomach flips as he picks up the letter and turns it in his hands, watching the gold of the government seal glint in the light.

              “Hey,” Shiro says cheerily from across the counter, sliding two slices of smoking toast onto a plate. “Happy birthday. Today’s the day.”

              _Today’s the day_. All week, Keith told himself that he wouldn’t freak out; after all, over half of married couples are assigned, and divorce rates are so small as to be negligible. Besides, wasn’t this his plan all along? Don’t date, don’t get attached, and let the government choose who he spends the rest of his life with when he turns 25. It certainly seemed easy at the time.

              “Yeah,” Keith mumbles, feigning grogginess as he runs a thumbnail under the envelope flap absentmindedly; then, his eyes narrowing, he rips the envelope open in one motion.

              He slides the paper out, hands shaking more than he would care to admit.

              He reads it from top to bottom.

              Then, blinking a few times, because surely he’s still asleep and dreaming, he reads it again.

              “Well?” Shiro prompts, coming around the corner and leaning against the counter. “Who is it?”

              Keith finally looks up, his eyes not quite focused. “This is a fucking joke.”

              Shiro frowns, taking a step forward and reaching for the paper. “What?” He takes it easily from Keith’s limp fingers and scans it. “What do you mean—? Oh.” He glances at Keith, his eyes wide.

              _Oh._ Keith closes his eyes tightly and sinks down in a chair, too tired to be truly angry, too dazed with disbelief to even register what Shiro says next. All he can hear is static; all he can see is typewritten letters, and he wants to check to make sure it’s _his_ letter, but of _course_ it’s his letter, because this is what he gets for expecting the government to find someone for him. It’s a big fucking cosmic joke, a huge middle finger in the general direction of Keith Kogane.

              Of course his betrothed is _Lance fucking McClain_.

              Keith would rather die.

* * *

 

              “What do they _mean_ Keith is my match?” Lance shrieks, shaking his letter in Hunk’s face. “Hunk, what the _hell_?”

              Hunk puts his hands up in a placating gesture. “Dude, calm down. Take a moment to breathe.”

              “Don’t tell me to _calm down_! I _am_ calm!” Lance’s shaking hands betray him, and he practically smashes the letter into his face as he brings it up to read it again. “I’m not even 25 yet! Isn’t there, like, a rule that you can’t be matched until you’re 25?”

              Hunk looks pained. “Once you turn 21, you’re fair game to be matched unless you’re in a registered relationship. That’s kind of common knowledge, Lance.”

              Lance groans and lets his head hit the wall behind him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he drawls. “What if I just don’t show up? Change my name? Move to Australia? Eject myself into outer space?”

              Hunk places a comforting hand on Lance’s shoulder. “And go to prison for Evasion?”

              Lance shrugs. “Free room and board. And no Keith.”

              Hunk sighs just as the doorbell rings, harsh and demanding and rung too many times for so early in the morning. “That’s probably Pidge. I’ll be right back—and don’t rip up your letter, for the love of God, Lance.”

              He exits the living room to let Pidge in, and Lance slumps onto a beaten-down couch.

              _Keith._ Why did it have to be _Keith?_ Something strange flutters in Lance’s stomach; he quickly squashes it.

              “Are you _fucking serious?_ ” Pidge shouts, their voice carrying from the foyer. Footsteps echo through the hall, and then Pidge is snatching the letter from Lance’s hands and holding it within an inch of their nose. They bark out a laugh, shaking their head in wonder. “This is perfect.”

              “ _Perfect?_ ” Lance echoes in disbelief. “Pidge, this is a disaster! I’m actually going to die, because Keith is going to come over here and kill me.”

              “Well, clearly someone besides me thinks you should be a thing. Besides, you’ve been drooling over Keith for, what, a year now?”

              Lance flushes red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

              Pidge rolls their eyes. “I may wear glasses, but I’m not blind, Lance. You’ve got it bad for him, so what’s the problem?”

              Lance opens his mouth to protest, but the words stick in his throat. He bites his lip instead, standing suddenly and stalking past Pidge into the kitchen. “ _Everything_ , Pidge!” He yanks the fridge open with a little more force than necessary and grabs a carton of milk. “We’re not even _friends._ ”

              “Right. Now, you’re fiancés,” Hunk points out, quite unhelpfully in Lance’s opinion, as he joins them in the kitchen. “Plenty of people bypass the ‘friends’ stage.”

              Lance takes a too-large swig of milk. “Yeah, Hunk, you’re totally right. It’s completely normal to get spontaneously engaged to the _one_ person on your research team who’s hated you from day one and is constantly trying to one-up you. Thanks for clearing things up for me.”

              He slams the milk onto the counter and stomps out of the kitchen. Hunk calls after him, despite Pidge’s offhand assurances that Lance ‘just needs time to process,’ but Lance ignores them, retreating to his bedroom where he flops onto his bed and stares blankly at the ceiling.

              Of course his betrothed is _Keith fucking Kogane_.

              Lance would rather die.

* * *

 

              Keith almost calls out of work on Monday. He’s got the phone in his hand and the number cued up when Shiro places a hand on his and shakes his head. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

              Keith scowls. “Watch me.” He goes to dial, but Shiro calmly takes his phone and walks out the front door. “Shiro!” Keith follows him to his car, catching his reflection in the shiny black exterior. His eyes have bags under them, the result of a largely sleepless night spent thinking about Lance and then trying _not_ to think about Lance. “Stop! Give me my phone back!”

              “No. Not until you stop acting like a child.” Shiro slides into the driver’s seat and stares Keith down. Somehow, even sitting, Shiro exudes authority; not for the first time, Keith regrets having his team leader as a roommate. “Get in the car, Keith.”

              Keith crosses his arms. “No. You’re not my father.”

              “That’s true. However, I am technically in charge of you, as leader of the Voltron research team, and if you choose not to come to work today, I’ll have to relieve you of your position on the team.”

              A low blow, considering all of Keith’s life’s work has been toward getting on that team. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair; then, regretfully, he yanks the car door open and thumps into the seat. “I hate you,” he grumbles as Shiro pulls out of the driveway and starts toward Altean Innovations, Inc.

              “No, you don’t,” Shiro says wearily. “I’m just trying to teach you some responsibility, Keith. You can’t run from this.”

              Keith deflates, slumping back in his seat. “I know. That doesn’t mean that I can’t try.”

              Shiro pauses. Then, slowly, he says, “Maybe you should talk to Lance about it.”

              Keith bristles. “Hell no.”

              “Keith—“

              “I said _no_ , Shiro. I’ll call the Department of Marriage again and see if there’s any way to get a reassignment. There has to be another way.”

              “There _is_ no other way.” Shiro sighs. “The rules say that you have to give the marriage a month before considering divorce, and even _then,_ it’s messy and expensive to find another match.”

              “Well, the rules are bullshit,” Keith grumbles, taking his phone from where Shiro set it in the center consol. He purposefully ignores the text from Pidge flashing at the top of his screen, urging him to call them, and busies himself searching the Internet for anything regarding match errors. By the time they arrive at Altean Innovations, Inc., Keith has a headache building behind his eyes, and he refuses to look at Shiro as he follows him into the building and to the research wing.

              “Shiro! Keith! You’re late!” Allura scolds, stepping away from her desk and swiping a hand through the holographic display behind her to disperse it.

              Shiro’s cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. “My apologies, Allura. We had some—um— _difficulties_ this morning.” He sends an accusatory glance at Keith, who blows out a frustrated breath.

              Allura sighs. “Your team is in lab four. I will meet you there shortly.”

              Shiro and Keith head to the labs, the silence between them thick with tension. Finally, just outside the door to lab four, Shiro stops Keith with a hand on his upper arm. “Promise me you won’t do anything to jeopardize our team. Whatever comes out of this, it has to stay personal; it cannot follow you to work. We have to be able to operate effectively as a team. Do you understand, Keith?”

              “Yeah, I understand,” Keith bites out, his eyes locked on the floor. “Let’s go.”

              Shiro releases his arm and pushes the door open. Keith follows him into the lab, a room lit through a solid-glass window that spans the entire length of one wall with a table in the middle that currently has holographic three-dimensional blueprints suspended over it. Pidge is gesturing at something on the edge, but they stop mid-sentence when Shiro and Keith enter.

              The tension in the hall has nothing on that which fills the lab. Keith’s eyes flick from Pidge, arm still extended toward the blueprint, to Hunk, leaning against the wall and staring at Keith with wide eyes.

              Unwittingly, his eyes find Lance, half-reclined in an office chair with his arms crossed behind his head and his feet propped up on the table. He sits frozen, a living statue, the only sign of life the flush slowly creeping up his neck and onto his face. Their eyes meet for a moment; then, Keith looks away forcibly, feeling his own face heat up.

              Hunk clears his throat, and just like that, the room animates again. “So, Pidge, you were saying?”

              “Right. If we adjust this reactor so it directs the energy to the front of the lion rather than to the back, we may be able to enhance force and accuracy, although it would decrease speed and agility.” They use both hands to enlarge part of the blueprint, spinning it to highlight a certain portion of the machine. “See, this part here, if we just turned it—“

              “I still don’t understand why we’re making our spaceships look like lions,” Lance interrupts, sitting up and stretching with a small groan. “Wouldn’t it make sense to use something more aerodynamic?”

              “The idea is that the spaceship will be functional in all types of situations,” Shiro reminds him, dragging a list of specifications off the table and next to the blueprints. “The lions will have the ability to fly at high speeds with great agility, maneuver through water with relative ease, and travel effectively on the ground. They’re the ideal ship for intergalactic exploration.”

              “What about, like, a spaceship shaped like a bird?” Hunk suggests, drawing a quick sketch in front of him. “Or maybe a person? Like a giant robot-type-thing? It would certainly have the attack power needed if faced with hostile alien species.”

              “ _If_ aliens even exist,” Lance scoffs, standing to join Hunk at the table.

              “Of _course_ aliens exist, Lance—“ Keith begins, stalking to the table and starting to flick through holographic files for the evidence he _constantly_ has to bring up as proof for Lance, but his words catch in his throat. _Lance. His fiancé Lance._ The thought sends a weird tremor through Keith that he decides to interpret as disgust.

              To his right, Shiro clears his throat. It’s a clear warning: _keep it out of work_. Gritting his teeth, Keith forces himself to continue, “There are literally thousands of images of alien lifeforms. Besides, we work at a _space exploration innovation_ lab. How can you not believe in aliens?”

              Lance is staring at Keith like he’s never seen him before, and Hunk has to elbow him out of his trance. “Um, what?” He blinks a few times, avoiding Keith’s eyes. “I, um, obviously I’m just more intelligent and informed than you,” he manages, a line he’s delivered before, but with much more haughtiness and vanity.

              Keith swallows and says nothing, afraid of what he might say if he opens his mouth. Luckily, at that moment, the door opens and Allura stalks in, Coran close behind and glancing at her nervously. “Hello, team Voltron. I trust you have the specs drawn up as I requested?”

              Shiro gestures to the blueprints. “Of course. We’ve just been making some last-minute modifications.”

              Allura stands with her arms crossed, surveying the blueprints with a slight frown on her face. “Mechanical lions. What an odd concept.” A corner of her mouth lifts. “What is this?” She grabs the rough sketch of the robot that Hunk had drawn and enlarges it.

              Hunk lets out a nervous laugh. “Nothing, just an idea. Um. Why do you ask?”

              With a few quick twists of her wrists, Allura superimposes the sketch over the top of the lion blueprint. “Well, it’s an interesting idea. Were you thinking perhaps a humanoid spaceship rather than a lion?”

              “Yeah, maybe.” Hunk sounds slightly uncertain. Keith can understand; Allura’s a good friend to all of them, but while at work, her presence can be a bit intimidating, considering she controls their employment or lack thereof.

              “In case of aliens,” Keith feels the need to point out, casually flicking a recent article regarding a supposed alien sighting next to the blueprints. “Can’t be too careful.”

              “Come _on_ ,” Lance groans, dragging the article off into the void with a dramatic sweep of his hand. “That’s obviously fake.”

              Keith ignores the hammering of his heart and the voice in his head chanting _fiancé_ on repeat and says, “How can we trust Lance to make important engineering decisions when clearly his eyesight is so poor he can’t see basic evidence when it’s placed right in front of him?” It’s not meant to be a serious insult—just a joke, like it’s always been between them—but when Keith glances at Lance he looks shocked, hurt flashing so quickly across his face that Keith thinks he might have imagined it before he pulls himself up, scowling.

              “Says the person who wanted to put _laser guns_ and _swords_ on the arms of the lions! What is this, a television show? These are for _exploration and research_ , not battling alien armies!” Something’s off about Lance; it’s the way he leans slightly away from Keith, instead of getting into his face like normal, and the way his voice shakes slightly near the end.

              “Okay!” Allura says quickly, coming up beside them and placing gentle yet firm hands on both of their shoulders. “Don’t start this again. I’m leaving Coran with you while I meet with the CEO; don’t make him babysit you, please.” She swipes a copy of the blueprint into a device on her wrist and turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh, right.” She faces Keith with a wide smile. “Happy birthday, Keith. It’s a big day for you, isn’t it?”

              Keith feels trapped in his own skin. Beside him, Lance tenses, and Keith can feel his eyes on him, but he forces himself to meet Allura’s gaze. “Yeah,” he manages, his voice coming out slightly strained. “Yeah, it is.”

              “Well, whenever you’re ready, I’d love to meet them.” If Allura can see the barely concealed pain on Keith’s face, she ignores it. “Congratulations.”

              As soon as the door closes behind Allura, Lance lets out a long breath. “Um,” he starts, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. “Keith. Should we talk about—?”

              “ _No_.” Keith turns his back on Lance and rounds the table so he has easy access to the blueprints. “What does Allura want us to do with this robot concept?”

              He’s met with silence, and when he glances up from the blueprints, he meets four pairs of eyes. “Well? Any ideas?” he repeats, frustration rising like a tidal wave within him.

              Still nothing. Pidge and Hunk stand to the side, their eyes alternating between Lance and Keith uncomfortably. Shiro looks pained. And Lance—

              Keith has no idea what Lance’s eyes are saying.

              “If you don’t mind, could someone please explain to me what’s going on here?” Coran says from behind Keith.

              Lance opens his mouth—maybe to explain, maybe not, Keith doesn’t know—but before he can say anything, Shiro quickly cuts in. “Just some personal issues, Coran. It won’t interfere with our work again.” He sends a quick, meaningful glance between Keith and Lance, and Lance snaps his mouth closed.

              “Excellent!” Coran claps his hands together, grinning. “Now, let’s see about these lions, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first work in the Voltron fandom! I originally intended for this to be short, but now it feels like it needs to be longer... I will try to update at least once per month.


	2. Chapter 2

              By the time the team disbands for the day, Lance is beyond exhausted. He’s only really on the research team because Hunk recommended him—after all, he wasn’t exactly best-in-class in the astrophysics department—and as a result, he usually feels a few steps behind the rest of the team. Exhaustion after an intense day of work, therefore, is nothing new.

              However, _this_ exhaustion—an all-consuming, can-barely-move type of fatigue— _is_ new, and Lance may not be the best and brightest on the Voltron team, but he’d have to be downright stupid to not know why. After all, there’s only so much tension one can endure in a day, and Lance has far exceeded his limit.

              That’s why he surprises himself by hesitating just outside the doors to Altean Innovations, Inc., fiddling absentmindedly with his phone and trying not to watch Keith and Shiro as they pause in the lobby to speak with Coran and Allura. Coran says something with a grin, elbowing Keith jokingly, and Keith laughs, his face lighting up with the kind of crinkle-eyed smile that sends Lance’s stomach aflutter. He quickly looks away, his hand clenching his phone a bit too tightly.

              “Lance!” Hunk calls, already halfway across the parking lot with Pidge at his side. “Come on, we’re going to be late!”

              “Just a second!” Lance _has_ to talk to Keith. The letter’s been burning a hole in his pocket all day, but every time the team had a break, Keith was gone, reappearing just as they got back to work. Lance isn’t an idiot; he knows Keith was avoiding him, and he keeps telling himself that _of course_ Keith doesn’t want to talk about it—Keith, his rival Keith, the _we aren’t friends, Lance_ Keith. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

              “Lance, I swear to _God_ —“

              “Yeah, Pidge, I’m coming!” He glances inside again quickly and catches Keith staring at him, his face blank and unreadable. Their eyes meet for a moment; then, Keith turns away bodily, angling so his back is to Lance. Lance can see discomfort in the tension in Keith’s shoulders and the awkward stiffness to his stance; his stomach clenching, Lance steps away from the doors and jogs over to where Pidge and Hunk are waiting.

              “ _Finally_ ,” Pidge groans, already climbing into the passenger seat of Hunk’s SUV; Lance pouts as he slides into the backseat. “Do you know how hard I had to work to get these tickets? The final episode of Star Wars has been sold out for _months_.”

              Hunk starts the car and beings to drive. “Didn’t Shiro give you those?”

              Pidge crosses their arms and huffs out a breath. “That’s beside the point.”

              “Actually, that’s exactly the point.”

              “Hunk, I may be five years younger than you, but I can and I _will_ fight you.”

              “Oh, bring it _on._ Lance and I can take you easily. Right Lance?”

              Hunk is met with silence. He risks a quick glance into the backseat. “Hey, earth to Lance!”

              Lance’s thoughts are swirling around crinkle-eyed smiles and ominous church bells; it takes a few more calls of his name and a bony jab of Pidge’s finger before he blinks back to reality. “Huh? Yeah, of course. Totally.”

              Hunk glances at Pidge, an unspoken word passing between them. “Maybe you should talk to Keith,” Pidge says slowly, as if Lance is something that needs to be handled with care for fear of cracking. “You know. Before the wedding.”

              “ _Pidge_ —“ Hunk groans, but Lance cuts him off.

              “I know.” He pulls the letter out of his pocket; it’s already worn around the edges from how many times Lance has read it, just to make sure he isn’t having, like, a mass hallucination or something. “I’ve been trying, but…” He swallows, throat suddenly tight; he tries to mask the wave of sadness threatening to overcome him with a shrug and a short laugh. “He really takes this whole ‘rival’ thing seriously. What a drama queen, am I right?”

              “Lance, it’s okay.” Hunk stops at a red light and glances over his shoulder; his eyebrows are knit with concern. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

              “Pfft. I’m not upset.” The building pressure in Lance’s throat says otherwise; he can feel the tears coming and quickly swallows them. “I’m just…” He searches for words and comes up empty.

              “Really fucking upset,” Pidge finishes.

              Lance gasps, putting a hand to his chest. “Pidge, where did you learn that word? Did you hear it on the school bus?”

              “Ha ha. Don’t change the subject. If you don’t talk to Keith soon, the government’s going to come knocking—literally—and do you know how much illegal stuff I have on my computer?”

              “Too much,” Hunk mutters, pulling into the movie theater parking lot.

              “Anyway. There has to be _some_ chance that you two are compatible, right? I mean, you _were_ matched.”

              “Actually, there’s about a point-five percent chance that errors are made in the matchmaking process—after all, no software is perfect,” Hunk points out.

              “Thanks, Hunk, I feel so much better now,” Lance groans, thumping his head against the seat behind him.

              Hunk pulls into a parking spot, wincing. “Sorry. Do we even know for sure that Keith hates you? I mean, I know you two argue a lot, but it’s never really seemed, you know, spiteful.”

              “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.” Lance reflects on all the arguments, on all the times Keith has clammed up suddenly and refused to speak to Lance, on all of Lance’s mistakes that have made Keith red in the face and rendered him speechless. Like they could ever be anything other than rivals. “Even if, for some wildly unknown reason, he _doesn’t_ completely hate my guts, he certainly doesn’t want to _marry_ me, Hunk.” He delivers the words with an air of nonchalance, but his hands clench into fists against his will.

Lance wishes his heart would stop aching.

              “Lance, I really feel for you, but if we don’t get out of the car now, we’re going to miss the single best movie of the year,” Pidge says gently. “I don’t think any of us could handle that level of sadness.”

              Lance takes a deep breath and forces all of his negative thoughts to the back of his mind, giving Pidge a toothy grin. “Do you have the snacks?”

              Pidge snorts. “Please. Who do you think I _am_?” They pat their jacket pockets, which are deceptively thin, and crawl out of the car, Lance and Hunk following close behind. The dizzying smell of butter hits Lance full-force as they enter the building, and he excuses himself from Pidge and Hunk to visit the concession stand, mouth already watering.

              “One large tub of popcorn with extra butter,” he says, leaning against the counter and throwing the concession worker a wink.

              With a roll of her eyes, she busies herself with the popcorn. Lance’s eyes roam the lobby, attempting to locate Pidge and Hunk and failing. He stifles a yawn that quickly turns into a choked gasp for air; coughing and red-faced, Lance blinks the tears from his eyes and does a double take.

              Keith. Keith’s here, in the theater, with Shiro, and _holy shit he’s looking this way._ Quickly, Lance ducks behind one of the candy kiosks; the concession worker glances at him strangely before busying herself with the butter machine. Tentatively, Lance pokes his head around the side of the kiosk.

              Keith is standing with his back to Lance, arms crossed. Lance can tell by the stiff set of his shoulders that he’s uncomfortable; Lance has a moment of confusion before Shiro reappears in his line of sight, deeply engaged in conversation with—

              Lance’s lips curl into a smile. So Keith’s third-wheeling it with Shiro and Allura. Feeling more confident, Lance straightens and approaches the concession area again, where the worker waits with a vaguely annoyed expression on her face.

              “That’ll be $8.25.”

              Lance begins to dig in his pockets for his wallet. Then, he pauses, sending Keith a curious glance. He’s got his phone out now, one hand in his pocket and the other scrolling mindlessly while Shiro and Allura subtly-not-so-subtly flirt.

              Something flutters in Lance’s stomach; without thinking, he says, “Actually, can I have another large popcorn please?”

              The worker barely holds back an exasperated sigh, plastering a forced smile on her face. “Just a moment, sir.”

              Lance locates his wallet and fiddles absentmindedly with his credit card, watching Keith out of the corner of his eye. It’s always a bit disorienting to see him outside of work; they don’t really spend much personal time together unless it’s some sort of group outing, which are few and far between, and Keith rooms with Shiro, so they spend more time together than with the rest of the team. However, outside the formality of the work environment, Keith hardly seems more relaxed; Lance briefly wonders if the guy ever takes any time for himself, then, like an arrow to the chest, realizes that Keith’s current tension probably stems more from the whole “marriage” situation than anything.

              “$16.50 is your total,” the concession worker says flatly, drawing Lance’s eyes away from Keith. He quickly swipes his card with an apologetic smile and gathers the tubs in his arms, trying not to let his nervousness show as he approaches Keith from across the lobby. If he’s going to marry the guy soon, he may as well _try_ to form some sort of positive connection.

              Lance gets close enough that Keith can hear him, Shiro and Allura too wrapped up in one another to notice his arrival; then, with a sly grin, he leans in and says in a low voice, “Boo!”

              Keith’s reaction is instantaneous and completely unexpected. His elbow comes around and slams into Lance’s stomach, and all of the air comes out of Lance in a rush; he barely keeps the popcorn from tumbling out of his hands as he staggers back a few steps, coughing.

              “Lance, what the hell?” Keith says, sounding way too indignant for a man who just elbowed somebody on reflex.

              “ _Me_ what the hell? _You_ what the hell, Keith! What are you, like, a ninja or something?” Lance manages between coughs, taking in a few deep breaths of air until he’s breathing semi-normally again.

              “What?” Keith’s forehead creases. “No, I studied Tae Kwon Do for a few years. What are you doing here?”

              “Hunting elephants,” Lance quips. When Keith squints at him like he’s actually considering the prospect, Lance sighs. “Hunk, Pidge, and I are seeing the final episode of Star Wars in…” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Now, actually.”

              “Hey, Lance,” Shiro calls, finally noticing his arrival, and Allura waves cheerily. The ninja-reflexes fiasco seems to have gone unnoticed by both of them, which Lance can honestly say doesn’t surprise him in the least. “You’re here for Star Wars? Us too. We should head into the theater.”

              He and Allura start toward the theaters, Lance and Keith following close behind. Lance is acutely aware of the careful distance Keith is keeping between them, like he’s afraid he’ll be shocked if he gets too close, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt at least a little.

              “So, Shiro and Allura,” Lance says lightly in an effort to break the tension. “I bet it’ll be less than a week before they officially become a thing.”

              Keith hesitates a moment. Then, he says, “Considering Shiro hasn’t even officially filed his re-match rejection papers yet, that’s unlikely.”

              Lance grins. “Come on, Keith. They’re both officially divorced; that’s what really matters. I bet you twenty dollars that in less than a month, they’ll be in a registered relationship.”

              Innocently, Keith says, “I thought you said less than a week?”

              Lance groans. “ _Keith_. You know how slow the government processes files, especially in the Department of Marriage.”

              Immediately, the tension returns; Keith stares at the floor like it holds the secrets of the universe, and Lance curses his runaway mouth. “Anyway. Are you game?”

              “If you’re dumb enough to bet on such poor odds, then sure.” Keith shoots Lance a small smirk; it’s the most Lance has gotten out of him all day, and his heart jumps a little in his chest.

              “We’ll see who the dumb one is once you’re handing me twenty dollars,” Lance boasts, shifting the popcorn in his arms as he puffs his chest out proudly.

              Keith just shakes his head. Then, eyeing the popcorn tubs in Lance’s arms skeptically, he comments, “You know, it’s cheaper to just get a refill.”

              Lance clicks his tongue. “Damn, you’re right. Silly me. Guess I’ll just have to give one of these to you.” He pushes one of the tubs at Keith; when Keith doesn’t take it, he glances over and frowns. “Dude, just take the popcorn.”

              Keith pushes the tub away with one finger, his face slowly reddening. “I don’t like popcorn.”

              “Don’t like—!” Lance gasps, offended. “Everyone likes popcorn! How can you go to a movie and _not_ have popcorn!”

              “The same way that I’ve done it every other time.”

              “Just—“ Lance shoves the tub at Keith again, more forcefully. “If you don’t want it, give it to Shiro or something.”

              Keith hesitates, then takes the tub and holds it gingerly in both hands. “Um, thanks. I guess.”

              “Don’t mention it.”

              They enter the theater in an awkward silence increasingly filled with movie trailer music and muffled dialogue, and Lance prepares to ask Keith the question that’s been burning in his mind all day: _What are we going to do about this whole thing?_ However, he stops himself at the last moment, chewing his bottom lip and staring at the back of Keith’s head as he follows him up the aisle to where Hunk and Pidge are sitting.

              Keith is talking to him. After an entire day of avoidance, Keith is actually _talking_ to him, and Lance finds himself reluctant to remind him of the elephant in the room. Besides, the movie’s about to start, and Lance _really_ doesn’t want to sit on edge for two and a half hours.

              “Hey guys,” Hunk says quietly as they approach. Lance snags the seat next to Hunk’s, because there’s no way he’s ending up sandwiched between Keith and Shiro; he can tell Keith is reluctant to sit next to him, but a meaningful look from Shiro has him dropping into the seat next to Lance with a huff. Lance chooses to ignore him and instead fully reclines his seat, folding his arms behind his head and sighing in contentment.

              He’ll worry about Keith later.

* * *

 

              Fact: Keith _loves_ popcorn. There’s no way he’s eating it now, though—not when he’s told Lance that he doesn’t like it—so he hands it to Shiro wordlessly. Shiro raises an eyebrow but takes it, tucking the tub between him and Allura.

              Keith wishes he’d never agreed to tag along on their date- _not-a-date-Keith-it’s-just-a-get-together-with-a-friend_. He wishes Lance had never offered him stupid popcorn.

              He wishes he hated Lance McClain.

              He also wishes he’d actually _seen_ the second-to-last Star Wars movie, because when they exit the theater nearly three hours later, he has absolutely no idea what he’s just witnessed. All he could make sense of was the rebel-versus-empire dynamic and Lance’s hand, dangerously close to his on the armrest.

              A scowl pulls at Keith’s lips. Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be _Lance_? Lance, his annoying mile-a-minute chatterbox coworker. Lance, with his mocking blue eyes and smug lips. Lance, with his penchant for stupid ideas and even bigger penchant for stupid ideas that _worked_.

              Lance, the only person that Keith just can’t get a handle on. Could someone like that even coexist with someone like him? They’re fire and ice, blue and red, yin and yang—total opposites, always at odds. It feels more likely that they’ll end up destroying one another than ever finding harmony and compromise.

              “Hey, Keith.” Lance’s voice drags Keith back to the material world, and he finds himself in the movie theater parking lot, standing next to a scraggly tree and an equally scraggly-looking pickup truck. Shiro and Allura are talking to Pidge and Hunk a few cars further, and Keith briefly wonders why Lance would stop him so far away from the group; then, he sees Lance’s guarded expression.

              “Lance, not now,” Keith sighs, running a weary hand through his hair.

              Lance pouts a little, which looks honestly ridiculous on a man in his mid-twenties. “When, Keith? You’ve been putting me off all day.”

              “I _know_ ,” Keith says, his voice a bit too harsh. He takes a deep breath and tries to tone it down. “I just… I just need time to sort this out.”

              “I get that, but the entire process is a bit time-sensitive.” When Keith looks blankly at him, Lance throws his hands up in exasperation. “Keith, did you even _read_ the second half of your letter?”

              Keith bristles at the thinly veiled accusation. “No, actually. I got kind of hung up on the fact that it was _your_ name listed.”

              Lance must be tired, because he lets a small flinch of hurt overcome him. “Well, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows for me, either, but at least I read enough of it to know that we have to send in our preliminary paperwork within a week.”

              Keith’s head is spinning; it’s too much, too fast, and he’s drained beyond all belief. Maybe that’s why he scowls and snaps, “Just give me a few more fucking days to _adjust_ , Lance.”

              Lance’s eyes harden. “Look, Keith, I understand that this is really hard for you, but I’m just as much a part of this as you are. You can’t push me away—“

              “Stop, Lance!” Lance’s mouth snaps closed, his eyebrows folding into a glare. “We’re not talking about some _team project_ for work; we’re talking about _marriage_.” His throat closes up on the word _marriage_ so it comes out sounding slightly garbled.

              “Thanks for the clarification,” Lance says hotly, rolling his eyes.

              “This isn’t a fucking _joke_ , Lance. God, why is everything a joke with you?” Keith is aware that he’s crossed into dangerous territory, but he feels almost disembodied from himself as he continues, “Grow up and act like an adult for once.”

              Lance’s hands are clenched in tight, shaking fists at his side. “You know what, Keith? You’re right. Congratulations. Guess you better call the Department of Marriage and let them know that they accidentally matched you with a _child._ Maybe then they’ll rematch you with someone you can stand to be near.”

              Lance storms away, leaving Keith with a red-hot anger that ravages his insides and leaves him feeling hollow. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls hard.

              God, he’s such an idiot.

* * *

 

              Lance’s fury lasts until he reaches his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and sits on his bed, pulling the letter from his pocket and unfolding it. He stares at Keith’s name, feeling the pulsing anger within him quickly morph into something tight and uncomfortable that makes it hard to breath.

              “Fucking Keith,” he mutters, casting the letter to the side. He draws his knees to his chest and buries his face in them, letting out a shaking breath.

              Lance wishes he’d never gotten that stupid letter. He wishes Hunk had never recommended him for the Voltron team and that he’d never even met Keith.

              He wishes he hated Keith Kogane.

              In the end, Lance isn’t sure what puts him to sleep: the wishes or the hot, salty tears spilling down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized that I essentially can't properly write Lance....  
> Tips on characterization are greatly appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who just graduated high school!!! That being said, I should (fingers crossed) have more time to write in the summer...

                  Keith reads the rest of his letter.

                  Or, rather, Keith reads the rest of his letter with Shiro across the table from him, pinning him to his chair with the sheer force of his disapproving stare. Keith thinks that maybe Shiro went into the wrong career; he would be terrifyingly effective in an interrogation.

                  “Can’t you just tell me what to do?” Keith groans, propping his head up in his hand with his elbow on the table. “This is so _confusing_.”

                  “No. It’s about time you took some responsibility for yourself and your actions.” The weight of Shiro’s eyes on him alone makes Keith regret ever telling him about his conversation with Lance. “Besides, Lance understood the letter.”

                  Keith locks his eyes on the paper in front of him. “He’s not stupid, Shiro.”

                  “I know.” There’s a hint of a smile in Shiro’s voice that Keith chooses to ignore, instead refocusing his energy on discerning the letter’s instructions.

                  After a few minutes, Keith lets out a long breath and sits up straight. “God, this is a fucking disaster.”

                  Shiro frowns. “It’s not really that confusing, Keith.”

                  “Not _that_.” Keith buries his face in his hands. “There’s so much _here_ , about registering the marriage and arranging an official date before a certain deadline, and I thought I was ready to be matched, but I—“ He chokes up suddenly, his hands curling into fists. “I’m not ready to get _married_ , Shiro.”

                  After a moment, Shiro gently prompts, “To Lance?”

                  “To _anyone_! Especially to Lance!” Frustrated, Keith swipes the letter off of the table; it flutters to the ground lightly. “And he just keeps _bringing it up_ and _wanting to talk about it_ and I just _can’t do that, Shiro_!” Keith throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “ _Fuck_ the government!” He deflates a bit. “Fuck me.”

                  “Keith. Did it ever occur to you that Lance isn’t ready to get married, either? Probably less so than you. After all, it wasn’t _his_ 25 th birthday.”

                  Keith gets the distinct sense that he’s being reprimanded, and he bristles. “Well, _he_ certainly seems to be handling it well.”

                  Shiro frowns. “I don’t think that’s what’s happening at all.”

                  “Are you kidding? _He’s_ the one who wants to keep talking about it.”

                  “Because that’s who Lance _is_ , Keith.” Frustration crosses Shiro’s face for a split second; he sighs. “You really don’t know much about him. That’s very common with matches.”

                  “But I _do_ know him, Shiro.” Even as Keith protests, a small, irritating voice in the back of his mind acknowledges that Shiro’s right; he keeps talking to drown it out. “He’s obnoxious and rowdy and immature and completely at odds with me. One letter isn’t going to change that.”

                  “Probably not,” Shiro agrees, standing. “Still, it’s probably best to start making arrangements. It’s a bit embarrassing to be arrested for Evasion.” He starts for the stairs. “Oh, and that will definitely involve talking civilly to Lance,” he adds over his shoulder. “I recommend chocolates or flowers as an apology.”

                  Keith throws the closest object he can find at Shiro, which happens to be an orange from the fruit bowl. “Not funny!”

                  Shiro’s laughter echoes down the stairwell; with the click of his door, the kitchen is plunged into silence, and Keith sighs, slumping back in his chair.

                  Fucking fantastic.

* * *

 

                  Keith follows Shiro into work the next morning with his heart in his throat and three Cadbury milk chocolate bars shoved hastily in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t think Shiro noticed that he stole them from his secret-not-so-secret stash behind the oatmeal. If he did, he’s certainly holding back an exuberant amount of smugness.

                  God, Keith can’t believe he’s doing this.

                  Keith leaves Shiro to flirt with Allura and enters the break room, where he knows Lance will be getting his morning coffee. When he opens the door, Lance glances up from the coffee machine for a moment before quickly looking away, focusing on the frothy beige liquid trickling into his cup. “Hey,” he says quietly, and Keith can’t help the way his stomach twists with guilt.

                  “I’m sorry,” he blurts. As Lance turns his head with surprise, he continues, “I- I actually _do_ like popcorn. A lot. Especially the kind with extra butter.” He takes a deep breath. “Also, you’re not a child.”

                  Lance crosses his arms, turning to fully face Keith. “So you admit that you completely overreacted?”

                  Keith grits his teeth and tries to imagine Shiro’s voice in his head, telling him to stay calm. “I may have not handled the situation in the best way.”

                  A small, smug smile curls across Lance’s lips. “And you admit that _you_ were the childish one?”

                  Keith glowers at him. “Don’t fucking push it, McClain. I read the rest of the letter and I’m ready to do what we have to to make sure we don’t get put in jail for Evasion. That’s all.”

                  “It’s okay, Keith. You don’t have to say that I was the responsible one. Apology accepted.” Lance grabs his coffee and takes a long sip, keeping his eyes on Keith.

                  “Why did I even bother?” Keith mutters. He pulls the chocolate bars out of his pocket and sets them on the counter a little harder than necessary. “Here. For the love of God, whatever you do, do _not_ eat them in front of Shiro.”

                  “Did… did you buy me chocolate?” Lance puts a hand to his chest, raising an eyebrow. “Keith, I’m flattered.”

                  “Shut up.” Face burning, Keith turns and stalks toward the break room door.

                  “Wait, Keith!”

                  Keith pauses with his hand on the door and looks back. Lance seems uncertain, suddenly, both hands wrapped around his coffee cup. “Um, I’m not busy after work. If you wanted to fill out the paperwork.”

                  Keith swallows, his throat tightening suddenly with nervousness. “Yeah. Sure.” Alone. With Lance. His palms are sweating. He quickly exits the break room and takes a few deep, calming breaths.

                  Lance McClain is going to be the fucking death of him.

* * *

 

                  “This is bad this is bad this is _very very_ bad!”

                  Hunk gives Lance a concerned look as Lance practically slams the break room door behind him and sets down his fork. “Dude, relax. You can have some of my lunch if you forgot yours.”

                  “Thanks, buddy; not that I don’t love your cooking, but I actually remembered to pack something today. I’m talking about _Keith_.” Lance thumps down at the break room table. “He brought me chocolate today, Hunk.”

                  Hunk frowns. “Like, he just happened to have some chocolate that he shared with you, or…?”

                  “No, like he apologized and followed it up with _chocolate_.” Lance folds his arms on the table and lets his head fall into them. His voice slightly muffled, he says, “It shouldn’t make up for all the shit he said about me, but it does? Kind of?”

                  “I mean, you _are_ getting married soon. He’s probably trying to be civil.”

                  Lance looks up and says dryly, “Yeah, but Keith’s version of ‘being civil’ is not glaring at someone. This was different. He _blushed_.”

                  Hunk looks skeptically at Lance. “You’re blushing right now.”

                  “That is beside the point. He’s purposefully messing with me.”

                  “That’s ridiculous,” Hunk scoffs. “I’ve never heard Keith apologize for anything, ever, much less give anyone chocolates as an apology.”

                  “See? He’s being weird.”

                  “Or,” Hunk says slowly, “he’s making an effort with you.”

                  “Okay, _that’s_ ridiculous. He doesn’t want anything to _do_ with me, Hunk. He said it himself; he’s just doing what he legally has to.” Lance tries not to let the sharp spike of hurt that jolts through him show, but Hunk’s always been incredibly perceptive when it comes to Lance, ever since they were young.

                  “Look, Lance,” Hunk says softly. “I don’t know much about Keith, and neither do you. However, from the time I’ve spent working with him, I get the feeling that he says a lot of tough stuff to hide his emotions and sensitivities. You probably shouldn’t judge him too harshly right now; he’s tense and uncomfortable, just like you.”

                  “Me?” Lance blows out a dismissive breath and waves a hand. “I’m not _tense_.”

                  “You haven’t even looked at Keith all morning, and you didn’t blink an eye when I mentioned adding special weapons to the lions. “

                  “Yeah, because I was too busy thinking about the _chocolate._ ” Deep down, Lance knows that Hunk is right; he feels constantly on edge, especially after last night, and he has no idea what to expect from here on out. However, there’s no way in hell that he’s going to admit that, not even to Hunk. “Special weapons? Like, lasers and shit?”

                  “Don’t try to change the subject,” Hunk says, even though Lance can tell from the excited raise of his eyebrows that he _really_ wants to talk about the weapons.

                  Lance puts on his best pouting face. “But Hunk, it would _really_ make me feel better if we talked about the lions.”

                  Hunk points an accusing finger at Lance. “Stop that. You know I can’t say no to puppy dog eyes.”

                  Lance widens his eyes comically and sticks out his bottom lip further. “Please?” he says, drawing out the word.

                  Hunk groans. “ _Fine._ But it’s not because of the eyes.”

                  “Sure it’s not.”

                  Lance lets Hunk’s voice wash over him as he talks on and on about reactors and atomic collisions and other engineering terms that are just a bit above Lance’s head. It’s comforting, like a warm blanket on a cold winter day, and Lance lets it drown out all thoughts of Keith and marriage until he finally begins to relax.

* * *

 

                  Lance almost forgets about his and Keith’s after-work plans until he enters the lobby to find Keith leaning against the wall near the glass doors, his shoulders tense and forehead creased. All at once, the butterflies are back in Lance’s stomach, their wings tickling him into a brief state of sheer panic that he quickly shoves below the surface and replaces with a broad grin. He approaches Keith with an air of nonchalance, hands tucked in his pockets. “Hey, space cowboy. Ready to go tie the knot?”

                  Keith glowers at Lance. “Let’s just go get this over with.” He turns sharply and pushes through the glass doors with a little more force than necessary; Lance watches the tenseness of his shoulder blades for a moment, his heart already aching a bit, and then follows him out to his car. It’s bright red and clearly an older model, but it purrs at Keith when he starts it and drives surprisingly smooth. Lance wants to say something—anything—to clear the building tension between them, but any words he brings to the tip of his tongue die before they can come out in the open.

                  By the time they reach Keith’s house, Lance would honestly rather spontaneously combust than spend any more time in the car, in silence, with Keith. If anything, Keith looks equally as relieved to have arrived; he quickly parks and climbs out of the car, pausing next to it as if unsure what to do. Lance wonders, briefly, if Keith has ever even had anyone over at his house; he’s not what Lance would describe as _social_ , and Shiro—well, Lance hardly knows Shiro any better than he knows Keith. He imagines he spends his free time filling out tax forms or something equally adult-like.

                  Wordlessly, Keith turns and unlocks his front door; Lance follows him into his house, which is surprisingly well furnished and neat, with paintings hanging all over the walls and sculptures perching on side tables and shelves. Keith pauses again, unsure, and Lance just can’t handle the tension anymore.

                  “Nice place. I didn’t know you were into art.”

                  Keith’s face reddens a bit. “Um. Thanks?”

                  “Dude, relax,” Lance sighs. “I get that this is weird.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Keith. “I mean, you’ve probably never invited a hot guy over to your house before. Baby steps.”

                  “Oh my God,” Keith groans, throwing his hands up in the air. “Just help me fill out this paperwork, okay?”

                  “Whatever you say.” Lance shoots finger guns at Keith; Keith rolls his eyes and leads Lance into the kitchen.

                  It’s obvious which side of the table is Keith’s; there are papers spread over every surface, a completely unnecessary amount of pens left uncapped on top of them. Keith gestures vaguely to the pile. “Where do you want to start?”

                  Lance’s jaw drops. “This is _all_ of it? Why haven’t they digitized everything?”

                  “They have. I printed it all out.”

                  Lance gapes at Keith. “ _Why?_ ”

                  Keith scowls—or, perhaps his face has been fixed in a scowl since they entered his house. Lance isn’t sure. “Because I like paper copies. Who cares? The faster we fill this out, the faster you can leave.”

                  Great. Now Lance has to sit here knowing Keith is counting the seconds until he goes home. Lance’s face twists into a scowl to match Keith’s. “Well, it would probably go faster if we filled it out online.”

                  “No, it would go faster if you stopped _whining_ about it and just started writing.”

                  “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

                  “ _You’re_ the one who’s making it difficult!”

                  “Am not!”

                  “Are too!”

                  Lance desperately wants to stomp his foot and pout, but he’s already dangerously close to reverting to a five-year-old, so he sticks with crossing his arms and glaring at Keith. “ _I’m_ just being practical.”

                  “No, you’re being petulant. Everything’s already printed out, so you’re just wasting time by arguing.”

                  “It takes two to argue, genius. You’re wasting time just as much as I am.”

                  Keith throws his hands up in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Lance.” He sits heavily at the table, running a hand through his hair. “Whoever thought this would work is a fucking idiot.”

                  Lance doesn’t understand why it feels as if something has just wrapped its hands around his abdomen and squeezed. He sits in the chair next to Keith, reaching for a pen. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a laugh. “You and me? Not in a million years.”

                  He tries to ignore the voice inside of him that whispers, “What if?” He pushes it back and back until he hopes he never has to hear it again. He can’t deal with it right now—not when Keith is sitting next to him, still scowling at Lance like he can’t wait to be rid of him. Lance deserves better than that.

                  “So,” Lance says, more than anything to bring himself out of his own thoughts, “where do we start?”

                  It turns out there actually isn’t as much paperwork as Lance initially thought on the table; Keith, apparently, is inept at printing and therefore printed approximately three times the number of pages that they need. Lance laughs at this, earning him a powerful glare from Keith and an angry, “Well if _you’re_ so smart maybe _you_ should have printed them.” Lance feels compelled to point out, _again_ , that he would never have printed them at all; ten minutes and three ripped-up pieces of paper later, both Lance and Keith swear to never bring up the paper versus digital argument ever again.

                  “Okay,” Keith says, sounding exhausted. He slides the first page in front of them. “Our names. That’s easy.” He scribbles his name down quickly; Lance does the same, but not before glancing quickly at Keith’s middle name—or, more accurately, lack thereof.

                  “Um, dude. I think you have to put your middle name down, like, legally.”

                  “Well, _legally_ , I don’t have one.”

                  Lance blinks. “Seriously? Did your parents just forget, or…?”

                  Keith takes the paper back from Lance a little more forcefully than necessary. “I don’t want to talk about it. Next question.” He looks down at the paper; Lance waits, but Keith seems to have lost his ability to speak, a flush slowly creeping up his neck.

                  “Keith,” Lance prods. “We’ve only completed one question. It’s a little early to check out.”

                  Keith swallows. “Last name?” When Keith glances at him, Lance honestly thinks he’s never seen Keith look more nervous, and he forcefully suppresses a laugh.

                  “Keithy boy. It’s not that big of a deal.” Lance’s twisting stomach says otherwise, but he scolds it internally and continues, “We’ll just hyphenate. McClain-Kogane. Or Kogane-McClain?” He frowns. “Which one comes first? There’s gotta be some sort of rule—“

                  “Lance!” Keith looks like he’s going to explode. “I don’t care. Just put something down.”

                  “Okay, okay. Calm down.” Lance hesitates, then writes _Kogane-McClain_ , trying to ignore the slight trembling of his hand. It looks so _real_ on paper; he has to look away, clearing his throat and forcing a smile. “See? This is fine.”

                  “Not the word I would have used,” Keith mumbles, scanning the paper for the next section. The rest of the form goes relatively smoothly; in a matter of minutes, Lance learns more about Keith Kogane than he’d learned in an entire year of working together. He’s adopted, raised in Texas. He moved here, to New York, with Shiro when he was 23. He’s a Sagittarius, which honestly? Lance should have expected.

                  Also, he gets flustered over the most ridiculous things.

                  “Relax, Keith,” Lance says, reaching for the form; Keith snatches it away, the scowl on his face contrasting ridiculously with the bright red blush coloring his pale cheeks. “It’s just an address.”

                  “ _An_ address! One! I’m not living alone with you, Lance!”

                  Lance pouts. “Hurtful. I’m actually a _great_ roommate. Ask Hunk.”

                  “I find that hard to believe. You’ve already spilled orange juice all over my floor.”

                  “Okay, that was an _accident_ , and I can’t believe you’re still upset about that?”

                  “Also, you smell.”

                  “Hey! _You_ smell!”

                  “Yeah, I smell great. _You_ smell like sweat.”

                  Lance smirks and shifts closer. “Well, _I_ can’t smell it. Looks like only one of us has to suffer.”

                  Keith wrinkles his nose. “Gross. How has Hunk lived with you this long?”

                  “Again, rude. Look, just move in with me and Hunk, okay? The rent will be cheap with three people.”

                  “Or, we could put down _my_ address and I could just bring you your mail at work.”

                  Lance sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “You use an address for more than just mail, Keith.”

                  “I don’t care. Shiro and I are _fine_ living here.”

                  “Actually, I think you should go.”

                  Lance lets out a too-loud squeak of surprise, turning to see Shiro standing in the hallway behind them, jacket and shoes still on. “Shiro,” he manages, his heart still racing. “Holy shit. You’re like a ninja.”

                  “Lance, shut up.” Keith stands and approaches Shiro, his face twisted in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘I should go’?”

                  “If you’re going to do this, you have to do it right. It’s best to just do things the way they’re meant to be done instead of trying to cheat the system.”

                  Flatly, Keith says, “So you’re planning on asking Allura to move in with you, then.”

                  “I never said that. This isn’t about her.”

                  “Sure it’s not.”

                  “Stay focused, Keith. Whether or not Allura is a part of this, the fact remains that you’re 25 years old, you’re getting married whether you like it or not, and it’s time to start facing that fact.”

                  Keith blows out an angry breath. “You can’t kick me out and then order me around.”

                  “I’m not kicking you out.”

                  “Bullshit.”

                  Shiro’s eyes narrow, and Lance decides that it’s time to stop them before this turns into a full-blown shouting match. “Guys, guys,” he says, getting to his feet so he’s standing next to Keith. He makes a placating gesture with his hands. “Just calm down.”

                  “Stay out of this, Lance,” Keith growls, not even looking away from Shiro.

                  “Excuse me? Last time I checked, we’re _this_ close to being legally registered to be married. I can’t just ‘stay out of this’.”

                  “Stop bringing it up!” Keith finally looks away from Shiro, and he’s close enough to Lance that Lance can see the tension in his face, the veins popping out near his temple. “God, why do you keep _saying_ it? I don’t want this!”

                  “Haven’t you said that enough yet?” Lance snaps, his stomach clenching. “I get it. You hate me. Thanks for the constant reminders. I’m just trying to deal with the inevitable.”

                  He expects Keith to retaliate with something harsh and biting, but instead he looks surprised. “I don’t- I don’t hate you, Lance.”

                  Lance rolls his eyes, hoping that the tension building within him doesn’t spread to his tear ducts. “Yeah, whatever. You don’t have to lie just because Shiro’s here.” He sighs and starts for the door. “Put down whatever address you want. I’m going home.”

                  “Lance! Jesus Christ—“

                  Lance shuts the door on whatever Keith’s trying to say. He stands on the front porch for a moment and takes a deep breath. Stupid. He’s so stupid for thinking—for _hoping_ —that maybe he and Keith could ever be what some stupid, ignorant part of him _still_ wants.

                  The front door flies open, smacking straight into Lance’s back. He stumbles forward with a yelp, nearly falling off the porch; instead, he knocks his head against one of the support beams. “What the hell?” he exclaims, turning with his hand clutching his forehead.

                  Keith’s eyes are wide. “I didn’t know you were standing _right in front of the door_!”

                  “Yeah, because you’re an idiot,” Lance says sourly, rubbing his forehead.

                  Keith scowls. “Why do you make it so hard to apologize to you?” He sighs, running a hand through his hair; Lance is beginning to think it’s a nervous tick of his. “We need to talk.”

                  Lance crosses his arms and says, “We were doing just fine before you started being an asshole.”

                  “Look,” Keith says through gritted teeth, like it physically pains him to speak, “when I said I didn’t want this, I wasn’t talking about _you_ , okay?” He pauses, and Lance wants to protest that it was _certainly_ about him the other night, but something about Keith’s tone of voice quiets him. It’s almost… nervous.

                  “I’m not ready for… _marriage_ … at all,” Keith says slowly, as if forcing the words out. “I thought I was, but… I’m not. So yes, part of this _is_ that we’re not exactly friends, so marrying you is still hard to process. But part of it is all on me.”

                  If Lance wasn’t sure before that he was well and truly fucked, he is now. Keith hasn’t even said anything particularly _nice_ and Lance’s heart is already beating double-time. “Apology accepted,” Lance concedes. “But it _is_ late and I do want to go home.”

                  “Right. I’ll drive you.”

                  The drive to Lance’s place is only slightly less awkward than the drive to Keith’s, if only because it’s shorter. When they arrive, Lance moves to get out, but Keith says suddenly, “Wait, Lance.”

                  Lance pauses with his hand on the door. “Yeah?”

                  “I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t hate you.” Keith shifts uncomfortably. “Also, I’m _not_ sharing a room when I move in with you guys.”

                  Lance’s stomach has about a million butterflies in it, but he still smirks and says, “Aw, come on, Keith. I’m an _excellent_ cuddler.”

                  Keith groans. “Get out before I change my mind.”

                  Lance’s laughter echoes down the street as Keith drives off with a completely unnecessary squeal of tires that he will _never_ admit is a teensy bit hot. He stands outside his house for a few more moments, staring down the street and wondering how, after _all_ of that, he only has stronger feelings for Keith.

                  Keith Kogane is going to be the fucking death of him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I watched the season 3 trailer and promptly wrote half of this chapter in about 30 minutes... Ahhhhgggg I'm so excited!!!! I can't wait to see how the team works without Shiro to mediate, and of course--more character development for Lance!!   
> Anyway, I'm hoping the plot starts to thicken more once I get the messy schematics out of the way :)

                  It turns out that ninety percent of the stuff in Shiro and Keith’s house is, in fact, Shiro’s, so Keith shows up on Lance’s doorstep the next day with two duffle bags of clothing and paintings tucked under both arms. He barely has enough time to wonder how he’s going to knock without any free hands when the door cracks open and Hunk’s face peers out. “Hey, Keith,” he says, opening the door fully. “Come in. I can grab the rest of your stuff if you want.”

                  Keith shifts uncomfortably. “This is all I have.”

                  Hunk’s eyes widen. “Dude, seriously? Lance said you were moving from your _house_ to ours.”

                  “My and _Shiro’s_ house,” Keith corrects, sliding past Hunk and into the front hallway. It’s cleaner than he expected, although perhaps that has everything to do with Hunk and nothing to do with Lance. “He moved there, and I followed. Besides, this is all I need.”

                  Hunk raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Some duffle bags and wall art?”

                  “Yeah,” Keith says, perhaps a little harsher than necessary. He hugs the paintings closer to him, suddenly feeling out-of-place. “Could you just show me to my room, please?”

                  Hunk looks like he wants to say more, but his verbal filter must be considerably more well-developed than Lance’s, because he just nods and leads Keith up a set of carpeted stairs to the upper level. “It’s the second one on the right,” he says, pointing at a closed wooden door.

                  “Thanks.” Keith reaches for the door, but he stalls with a small exclamation from Hunk.

                  “Wait!” Hunk looks sheepish. “Um. Before you open the door, just know that I haven’t finished packing yet, so that’s why it’s so messy. By tomorrow night, I’ll be out of your hair. Promise.”

                  Keith frowns. “Haven’t finished packing…?”

                  Hunk taps his index fingers together nervously. “Um. We actually only have two bedrooms. Which Lance forgot. So I’m moving in with Pidge.”

                  Keith’s mouth is very, very dry all of a sudden. He retracts his hand from the doorknob and focuses on not letting the paintings fall to the ground in shock. “You’re _what_?”

                  Hunk shrinks into himself a bit. “I’m moving in with, um, Pidge? Our coworker? They’re the small, excitable one.”

                  Keith abandons the duffles and the paintings on the ground and grabs Hunk by the shoulders, looking intensely into his eyes. “Hunk. Think about what you’re doing and then _don’t do it._ ”

                  Hunk’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Look, man, either I move or two of us end up sharing a bed.”

                  “So you share a bed with Lance!”

                  “Yeah, we tried that once. I pushed him off the bed. I kinda starfish when I sleep—you know, with my legs and arms across the whole bed—“

                  “Hunk!”

                  Hunk’s mouth snaps shut. Keith lets go of his shoulders, running a hand down his face. “Let’s just think this through for a moment. There has to be another option.”

                  Hunk is silent for so long that Keith looks up from where his gaze had been locked on the ground in thought to see him with a sheepish, hesitant look on his face. “What?” Keith says, crossing his arms.

                  “Well,” Hunk says slowly, “you could just… you know… move in with Lance.”

                  Keith’s stomach drops. “No. Not happening. That wasn’t the agreement.”

                  Hunk looks like he would rather be anywhere but here, but he clears his throat anyway and says, “Look. I know Lance. We’ve been friends since, like, forever. Yeah, he’s loud and obnoxious sometimes, and yeah, sometimes he uses humor a little too much, but he’s not a bad guy. He just takes a while to get used to.”

                  Keith should probably mention that “getting used to” Lance is exactly what he’s afraid of—that Keith will find himself somewhere he can’t return from—but instead he sighs and shakes his head. “We’re never going to get along, Hunk. I appreciate the effort, though.” He picks up his duffle bags and paintings and starts back down the stairs.

                  “Wait, Keith!” Hunk calls, sounding panicked. “Where are you going? Please don’t leave. At least wait until Lance gets back—“

                  Keith dumps his duffle bags on the sofa, letting the paintings nestle on top of them. “Relax. I’m just sleeping on the couch for now, okay?”

                  The stress visibly seeps from Hunk. “Oh. Okay. I’m, um, going to go pack right now.” He pauses awkwardly. “Make yourself comfortable?” After a brief hesitation, he backs up and ascends the stairs. As soon as Keith hears the door close behind him, he deflates, slumping onto the open space on the couch and putting his face in his hands.

                  Alone. At night. With Lance McClain.

                  Keith’s heart can’t stop pounding.

* * *

 

                  Lance opens the door to his house, grocery bags in hand, to find Keith balanced precariously on a stool, biting his lip in concentration as he positions a nail against the wall. “Keith?” Lance says, surprised, and Keith jerks in shock. The stool totters beneath him for a moment before settling again.

                  “Lance!” Keith hops down from the stool, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus.”

                  “Just Lance is fine, thanks.” He kicks his shoes off, setting the groceries down on a side table. “Is Hunk making you help him redecorate or something?”

                  Keith blinks once, twice, then scowls. “Actually, he’s packing. You know, since he’s moving in with Pidge.”

                  It’s a good thing Lance isn’t holding the groceries anymore, because he would have dropped them. “He’s _what_?”

                  Keith’s scowl is replaced with confusion. “Wait. You mean you didn’t know?”

                  Hurt flashes through Lance. “No.” He pushes past Keith, abandoning the groceries, and heads upstairs. Hunk’s door is closed, and Lance steels his face into a neutral expression before he opens it.

                  Hunk glances up from the cardboard box sitting in front of him. “Oh,” he says nervously. “Hi Lance.”

                  Lance gestures wildly to the boxes. “You’re moving in with Pidge? They’re practically a child! Isn’t that, like, illegal or something?”

                  “Lance, Pidge is almost 22.” Hunk swallows. “Also, I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you. You have every right to be upset.”

                  “Upset? I’m not upset,” Lance scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m just… worried about being alone with _Keith_. Hunk, don’t subject me to him! What if he, like, sharpens his knives at night?” Lance gasps dramatically. “What if he doesn’t like macaroni and cheese? You know that’s all I can cook.”

                  “Okay, one, boiling pasta and stirring in powdered cheese is not ‘cooking,’ and two, I’m pretty sure Keith doesn’t own any knives.” Hunk stands, looking apologetic. “And three, I love you, Lance, but I don’t think I can share a house with you and Keith for a couple _days_ , much less longer than that.”

                  “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

                  Hunk looks at Lance for a few moments in quiet exasperation. Lance stubbornly refuses to break the silence, even though he knows _exactly_ what Hunk means. Even though Hunk is wrong—very, very wrong.

                  Finally, Hunk sighs and says, “Do you want to help me pack?”

                  Lance pouts, but Hunk looks so apologetic, and they _have_ been friends ever since he can remember, so he relents. “Fine. But you’re visiting every day.”

                  “Dude, we work together.”

                  “It’s not the same!”

* * *

 

                  Hunk leaves, and it’s quite possibly one of the worst things that’s happened to Lance since he failed his first semester of college. He watches him drive away in his car— _their_ car, the one they picked out together from the used car lot, an awful yellow SUV that doesn’t even have an aux cord hook-up—and if Keith weren’t standing two feet away, he might cry. Instead, he squares his shoulders and heads back inside; it’s getting late, he has work tomorrow, and he _really_ _doesn’t want to stay here with Keith_.

                  Apparently Keith thinks the same, because he doesn’t say a word to Lance as he brushes past him and seals himself away in Hunk’s— _his_ —room. Lance can’t decide if that’s worse than if Keith wanted to talk.

                  Lance flops on the living room couch with a sigh. He flips the television on and absentmindedly scrolls through the channels until he lands on a _Friends_ re-run. He tucks his knees against his chest and half-watches, his mind wandering.

                  He wonders if Hunk is at Pidge’s yet. Does Pidge even have two bedrooms? _Obviously, since Hunk’s moving there. Duh._ Will there be enough room for Hunk’s posters and all the cooking supplies he brought? Briefly, Lance wonders if Keith can cook, and suddenly, he’s thinking about Keith. Is Keith an early-riser or a late-night kind of guy? Does he snore? What kind of food does he like? What does he do for fun? Does he even know how to _have_ fun?

                  Lance is so wrapped up in his thoughts he doesn’t notice that Keith is in the living room until he says, “This is my one of my favorite shows.”

                  Lance jumps, a small squeak escaping his lips. “Jesus fucking Christ, Keith! You can’t just sneak up on a guy like that!”

                  It might just be the light from the television flickering across Keith’s face, but Lance thinks he sees a small smile cross Keith’s lips. “You’re just not very perceptive.” He sits on the other side of the couch from Lance, crossing his legs. He’s changed into plain gray sweatpants, and Lance tears his eyes away quickly, focusing on the television screen.

                  “Excuse me, I’m _extremely_ perceptive,” he says. “It’s not my fault you’re like a ninja or something.”

                  “You’re ridiculous,” Keith scoffs. There’s a few moments of silence between them; then, more seriously, Keith says, “If you wanted Hunk to stay, I could have just slept on the couch or something. I don’t really sleep a lot, so it wouldn’t have been a problem.”

                  _So early-riser_ and _late-night kind of guy_. Lance shifts, suddenly uncomfortable, although he can’t place why. “Believe it or not, hot shot, not everything’s about you. If Hunk wanted to stay, he would have found a way.”

                  There’s an unspoken allusion there, that Hunk didn’t want to stay, and Lance hopes that Keith doesn’t pick up on it. However, it appears that when it comes to subtly, Keith is poor at execution and excellent at detection, because he frowns and says, “What do you mean, _if_ he wanted to stay?”

                  Lance blows out a breath and waves his hand. “Oh, you know… nothing, really, just talking. Oh, look, Monica’s kissing Chandler.”

                  Keith lets out a frustrated noise. “Lance, I’m trying to be nice or civil or whatever, but you have to work with me. Why wouldn’t Hunk want to stay?”

                  Lance reaches for the remote and turns the television up a few bars. “Drop it, ‘kay? I didn’t mean anything by it.”

                  Keith’s groan is loud enough that Lance can hear it over the canned laughter emanating from the television. “Forget I even fucking bothered.” He crosses his arms and sinks further into the couch cushions. They watch the rest of the episode in silence; Lance wants to relax, but the tension is actually killing him. He doesn’t know if he’s even going to be _alive_ by the time they actually end up getting married.

                  As soon as he has that thought, his mind screeches to a halt, and he has to work to drag it back into motion. He, Lance McClain, is going to stand in front of his family—oh _God_ he still has to tell his family—and an officiant is going to say a bunch of shit before he’s supposed to put a ring on Keith’s finger and _oh God does he have to kiss him_? Lance wracks his brain, trying to remember if Match weddings require a kiss or not, and comes up empty. God, what if he has to _kiss Keith?_ His cheeks are on fire, and he _really_ hopes that Keith is too wrapped up in _Friends_ to notice.

                  The worst thing is that a small part of him—no, a rather large part of him, actually— _wants_ to kiss Keith. Apparently Lance has a thing for assholes with mullets, and with Keith sitting three feet away from him, glaring at the television like it’s somehow insulted him, Lance’s stomach is doing some strange things that he really wishes it wouldn’t.

                  Especially since there’s no part of Keith that wants to kiss Lance.

                  The episode ends, and even though Lance is the opposite of tired, he shuts the television off and stands up with a forced yawn. “Well, despite the absolutely _riveting_ time we’ve had, I’m off to get my beauty sleep. This,” he says, gesturing at his face, “though a God-given gift, needs its rest.”

                  Keith stays seated. “Whatever. You don’t need my permission.”

                  “Okay, okay. No need to be an asshole about it.” Lance throws the remote on the couch with a little more force than necessary and leaves Keith sitting on the couch as he retires to his bedroom.

                  Normally, he enjoys his nighttime routine, but today he’s had just about enough of being cheerful, so he works methodically through his skincare routine expressionlessly, trying to pretend that everything is normal and that Keith isn’t sitting in his living room. It doesn’t work. Keith is still here, Hunk is still gone, he’s still getting married soon, and the world is, apparently, shit.

                  Lance can hear shuffling, footsteps coming up the stairs, and despite everything, he finds himself hoping. Keith said he didn’t hate him, right? Maybe, just maybe, this could work. Yes, Lance’s best friend since forever abandoned him to the mercy of Lance’s rival-slash-fiancé, and yes, Keith still basically acts like Lance is a minor inconvenience in his life, but _maybe_ the world will cut him a break.

                  Then, Lance hears Keith’s voice, bleeding through the thin walls. Against his better judgment, he presses his ear against the wall adjoining their rooms, just like he would do when Hunk was on the phone with Shay, if for nothing better than to tease him in the morning for all the lovey-dovey shit he said.

                  “I don’t know what to do, Shiro,” Lance hears Keith say angrily. “I’m not sure this was a good idea.” There’s a long pause, then Keith says, louder, “Shiro, I’m fucking _afraid_! What if…” He cuts off, and Lance knows he should step away from the wall, but something keeps him glued there, an invisible force powered by curiosity. Quieter, Keith says, “I know. You’re right. But that’s the _problem._ I’m not sure how much longer I can stay here with him before that happens.”

                  Keith says something else, but Lance can’t discern what, because he reels away from the wall, his heart simultaneously squeezing into itself and bursting. He feels stupid for even _hoping_ , for thinking that anything between them could ever be anything more than a rivalry. Stomach twisting painfully, Lance crawls into bed, pulling the covers tightly around him, and closes his eyes.

                  Alone. At night. With Keith Kogane.

                  Lance wishes his heart would stop aching.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half this chapter while sick with the flu, so if it seems a little off, that's why ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

                  Keith carpools with Lance the next morning, which is just about as awkward as he expects, and he’s almost relieved when he meets Shiro in the lobby at work. Then, Shiro gives Keith one of his signature “dad looks” and says, “So you’re afraid of becoming attached to Lance,” and Keith regrets ever even waking up.

                  “This is why I don’t call you about personal matters anymore, Shiro,” Keith groans, pulling Shiro to the side. He waits until Lance is safely gone before continuing, “Can’t we just both forget I ever even called you last night? I said some things I didn’t mean.”

                  “No, I think you said some things you normally wouldn’t.” Shiro puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder; Keith shrugs it off. “Look, why don’t you just talk to Lance about it? You’re both adults.”

                  Keith throws his hands up. “Yeah, Shiro? And tell him _what?_ I don’t even know what the fuck I’m feeling—how am I supposed to ‘talk to Lance about it’?”

                  “The same way the rest of us do when we have to deal with our problems.” Shiro is frowning now, his voice taking on an authoritative tone. “Keith, you haven’t done anything productive in team Voltron this entire week because you’re too busy trying to dance around Lance, and neither has Lance. We can’t operate as a team when we’re down two members.”

                  Keith scoffs. “We both know that Pidge and Hunk do ninety percent of the work anyway.”

                  Shiro fixes Keith with a rather impressive glare. “As your brother, I’m concerned about your wellbeing, but as your superior, I am telling you: _do not_ let this continue to interfere with work or I’ll suspend you both.”

                  Keith points an accusatory finger at Shiro. “You just said the team can’t operate without us.”

                  “It can’t. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

                  Shiro turns and makes to leave, but Keith grabs his arm. The prosthetic feels cool under his hand, the aftermath of Shiro’s grad school lab accident; it’s like a reminder of how much stronger Shiro is than Keith. “Fine. I’ll keep it out of work, but I won’t tell Lance about what we talked about last night.” Keith swallows, feeling vulnerable suddenly; he hates it. “I _can’t_ , Shiro.”

                  And Shiro’s still his brother, because he sighs and gives Keith a tired smile. “I know.” He gently removes his arm from Keith’s grasp, and Keith lets him. Together, they walk to the research wing where, just like every other day, Allura is waiting for them at her desk. As soon as she sees Shiro, a bright smile overtakes her face—just small enough to be professional, but large enough that Keith wonders how he ever _didn’t_ know that Allura had a thing for Shiro.

                  “Hello, Shiro. Keith. Late again?” She steps out from her desk and begins to lead them to the lab.

                  “Same reason as before,” Shiro sighs, giving Keith a meaningful glance. Keith glares in response.

                  Allura laughs. “I see.” She gives Keith a sympathetic look. “Shiro told me last night about your situation. I apologize if I made things uncomfortable for you earlier this week.”

                  Honestly, Keith is _more_ uncomfortable now. Still, he mumbles, “It’s fine,” if only because Allura seems genuinely apologetic.

                  They’ve arrived at the lab, and Allura claps her hands together. “I’ll leave you two here—I have a meeting with Coran that I must attend.” Her eyes are lit with delight. “We may have a potential investor!” She leaves before either Shiro or Keith can say anything else, her braids bouncing excitedly.

                  Keith shrugs and pushes open the lab door. Hunk and Pidge are leaning over the table, deeply engaged in something. There’s no Lance; he must still be getting his coffee.

                  “Hah!” Pidge exclaims suddenly, slamming their fist on the table triumphantly. “Told you! Hand it over.”

                  Hunk groans, taking a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and sliding it to Pidge. “Why do I still make bets with you?”

                  “Because it’s fun.”

                  “For you!”

                  Pidge tucks the money into their pocket. “It’s not my fault I’m always right.” To Keith and Shiro, they say, “I bet Hunk that I could figure out a way to make the ships lions _and_ robot men. Thou who doubtith my abilities shall payith the price.”

                  Shiro takes quick strides to stand next to Pidge, leaning over the table with interest. “How?”

                  “Well,” Pidge says, dragging the files off the table and into a holographic projection with a flick of their wrist, “incidentally, Hunk and I binged the Transformers series last night, and it got me thinking.” They duplicate the lion blueprint into five. “What if we made the lions so that they each transformed into one part of a humanoid? That way, apart, they could have the needed agility for reconnaissance, but if _maybe_ the ships encountered hostile lifeforms, they could join together to become stronger.” Pidge manipulates the lions, shifting things until each lion looks vaguely like part of a robot. “There would be some sort of activation code—maybe a button of some sort, or a verbal command from the pilots, that would trigger the transformation. Of course, we would have to devise a way that the ships would be able to protect themselves during the change—perhaps a force field or an autopilot feature that continues to conduct evasive maneuvers—but in the end…” Pidge swivels and adjusts the lions until they connect to form a robot that does, indeed, look remarkably similar to a Transformer. “…We have an immensely powerful humanoid robot.”

                  Keith reaches out, letting his fingers trail through the hologram. “Pidge, this is amazing.” He outlines a few new features on the lions that comprise the arms of the robot. “Are these laser guns? And _swords_?”

                  “Of course. You know, in case of aliens.” Pidge grins, and Keith finds himself grinning back.

                  “Ignoring all the _aliens_ stuff,” a voice says from behind Keith—one that inexplicably sends a jolt down Keith’s spine—“this is pretty fucking cool, guys.” Lance leans against the wall, his coffee cup held lazily in one hand. “Of course, we’ll have to significantly alter the metal used if we’re going to bond the lions together into one entity, but you know—still cool.”

                  “I was thinking a titanium alloy,” Pidge muses, pulling up some specs. “It’s extremely tough and can withstand extreme temperatures. Perfect for outer-space travel. Plus, it’s lightweight.”

                  “Sounds great.” Lance takes a sip of his coffee, wincing at the heat. “So, when do we start constructing a prototype?”

                  Hunk, Pidge, and Shiro begin discussing the schematics of actually constructing a high-tech spaceship. Keith is content to just sit back and listen—after all, he’s not an engineer or a physicist. He’s a technician—a hands-on kind of guy who doesn’t quite understand the science behind it as much as Hunk and Pidge do but certainly knows how to connect wires and program systems. He’s in the middle of imagining what working with the insides of a robotic lion will be like when Lance, suddenly much closer to him, says, “Man, this is _way_ over my head. My astrophysics major didn’t exactly give me a crash-course in robot lions.”

                  _Astrophysics._ Keith is surprised, and then he’s not. Everyone’s on the team for a reason, after all. He’s just never really explicitly seen Lance offer high-level scientific thinking like Hunk or Pidge. “Neither did my electrical and computer programming majors.”

                  Lance lets out a whistle. “And I thought Pidge was the hacker. Hey, can you get me into the FBI database? I want to prove you wrong about aliens once and for all.”

                  Keith scoffs. “More like prove me right.”

                  “Not likely.”

                  “There are literally _hundreds_ of pictures of alien sightings, Lance!”

                  Lance shakes his head. “Photoshop. All of them.”

                  “Oh yeah?” Keith approaches the table and starts typing, dragging picture after picture up. “Did they have Photoshop in the 1950s? Because that’s when this picture was taken.”

                  Lance points at the smudged picture Keith is referring to. “Come on, Keithy boy. That? That could be _anything_.”

                  “Like an alien.”

                  Lance rolls his eyes. He’s closer to Keith now, only a foot or so separating them, and Keith can feel the nearness like a physical touch, sending his skin tingling. He tries to ignore it, focusing on the _absurdity_ of Lance’s theory. “Or like a man in a costume!” Lance is saying, waving his hands around. One brushes Keith’s arm, leaving the point of contact burning with an unseen fire.

                  _Lance is annoying_ , Keith repeats over and over inside his head. _He’s obnoxious, and annoying, and completely insane._ Another part of him reminds him that he’s his fiancé; he stubbornly ignores it. “How do you know I didn’t already hack into the FBI and steal these photos?”

                  Lance puts a hand on his chin in thought, leaning over to get a better look at the pictures. Keith stares at the back of his neck, where fine auburn hairs curl and just barely touch the skin, for just a little too long.

                  “Because,” Lance says smugly, turning back to Keith, “I don’t think you know _how_ to hack into the FBI. Also, these all say Google Images on them, so…”

                  Keith scowls. “I could hack into the FBI if I wanted to.”

                  “Sure you could.”

                  “You wanna bet?” Keith hunches over the table, forehead creasing in concentration, but a sharp clearing of a throat brings his eyes up to where Pidge, Hunk, and Shiro are watching, all with various levels of amusement.

                  “Let’s keep the illegal hacking to after-work hours, guys,” Shiro says warmly. The look he gives Keith is a little too knowing for Keith’s comfort level, and he fervently hopes Lance didn’t notice.

                  “Noted.” Lance finishes his coffee and sets his mug on the table dangerously close to the electronics. Without thinking, Keith slides it to safer ground. “What’d we miss?”

                  “Well,” Hunk begins, “we’ve devised a way to connect the main power source to the artificial intelligence of the lions by using wires coated in a copper-titanium alloy, which will resist a blowout in case the fission reaction overheats—“

                  Lance holds out a hand. “In terms an astrophysicist who doesn’t know anything about engineering can understand, please.”

                  Hunk sighs. “Basically, it’s a lot of titanium alloy, which will be _very_ expensive. We don’t know if we can afford that amount of material.”

                  “Actually,” a voice says from the doorway, “we can.” Allura steps into the lab, Coran close behind, both wearing matching expressions of joy. “We have an investor!”

                  “Very rich, very dedicated to team Voltron, and _very_ interested in seeing the completed product,” Coran adds, twirling one side of his mustache with a finger. “We should be able to begin construction next week.” He claps his hands together. “This calls for after-work drinks, don’t you agree?”

                  Hunk and Pidge look too excited to speak. “That’d be great,” Shiro says, sliding the files back down onto the table. “Meanwhile, Keith? Let’s get to work on the central processing system.”

* * *

 

                  It turns out Coran wasn’t kidding about getting after-work drinks. Lance takes the opportunity to carpool with Hunk and Pidge, because honestly? Even though today was less-than-exhausting—finally—he needs a bit of a break from Keith, and he _really_ needs some time with Hunk.

                  As soon as they’re all in the car, Lance says, “Hunk, buddy, I gotta ask you something.”

                  Hunk starts the car and begins the drive to the bar they agreed to meet at. “Shoot.”

                  _Why did you move in with Pidge when we could have made_ something _work? What are you trying to say about Keith and I that would make us impossible to room with? Is this marriage going to change anything between us?_ Lance swallows and says, “Does this whole ‘Transformer robot’ thing mean you’re siding with Keith about the aliens?”

                  Hunk’s quiet for too long, and Lance gasps. “I can’t believe my own best friend would turn on me! What happened to being reasonable?”

                  “Well,” Hunk says slowly, “they _have_ found signs of former life on Mars, and there’s those new planets they’ve sent satellites to explore, not to mention the missions our space-lions will be used for…”

                  “Yeah, _scientific missions_. You know, ice samples! Soil tests!”

                  “I’m with Hunk on this,” Pidge pipes in from the front—they took shotgun again, and Lance is definitely bitter. “You’re an _astrophysicist,_ Lance. We work for a spacecraft technology organization. How can you _not_ believe in aliens?”

                  “Easy,” Lance huffs, crossing his arms. “Because they don’t exist.”

                  “That’s not an answer, nor is it substantiated with any proof.” Pidge pauses for a moment, and then says, “Sometimes, I wonder if you fight with Keith just for the sake of fighting.”

                  Lance finds himself scowling. “No, _he_ fights with _me_ because we don’t get along!”

                  Silence from the front seat. Then, Hunk says, “Lance. I’m going to be completely honest with you because I’m your friend and I love you. I think you _do_ get along.”

                  “No, nope, and no way. Just because he’s my match, it doesn’t mean that we ‘get along.’”

                  “You know how little boys tend to pull the pigtails of girls they like? It’s like that, but with less abusive undertones,” Pidge says, absentmindedly scrolling through their phone. “Honestly, though, you two are adults; have you even talked—like, _actually_ talked—about what’s going to happen?”

                  “Pidge, I am _trying_ , but Keith is an asshole and refuses to sit down for more than a minute and talk about _anything_. I asked him if he wanted breakfast this morning and he just stared at me!”

                  Pidge shrugs. “Maybe he’s not a morning person.”

                  Flatly, Lance says, “He was up at four this morning because he went for a _run_. I can’t live like this.”

                  “Well,” Hunk says, pulling into the parking lot of Nyma’s Bar, “you can’t say we didn’t try to help.” After he parks, the three of them head to the bar. Lance notices Keith’s car, already parked in the lot, and his stomach automatically flips.

                  God, he has it bad.

                  Inside, Keith and Shiro already have a table. Coran and Allura had stayed behind at Altean Innovations, Inc. to finish up some paperwork with the investor, but they show up halfway through the first round of drinks. Keith must be the designated driver, because he sits on his stool sipping sparkling water and looking vaguely annoyed. Lance thinks that maybe that’s just his resting expression. In any case, if Keith’s not drinking, that means that Lance can, and he does. He must have had a more stressful day than he first thought, because it’s not until he’s downed two tequila shots and a pint of beer that he comes up for air. His tolerance is good but not great; already, he can feel the world going just a bit out of whack, and everything seems slightly funnier, like when Shiro takes a drink just as Hunk tells a joke and ends up spraying pina colada everywhere.

                  Also, Lance is pretty sure Keith is starting to glow.

                  He ignores that last fact, because it’s _definitely_ the alcohol talking, but no matter where he looks Keith is always there, flickering just at the edge of his vision, like an unquenchable flame. In an attempt to drown him out, Lance orders another round of shots and downs them in quick succession; if anything, it just feeds the flame.

                  Which is how Lance finds himself sitting at the bar, empty glasses in front of him, drunkenly flirting with the bartender with one eye still on Keith at the other end of the bar. He’s pretty sure Keith notices him grinning toothily at Nyma as she pours him another mixed drink, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything—just keeps drinking sparkling water and staring at nothing.

                  “He looks lonely,” Lance says aloud— _very_ loud—and Nyma raises an eyebrow as she slides him his drink.

                  “Who?” She follows Lance’s gaze to Keith, who is pointedly staring into his glass, and giggles. “Keith Kogane? Honey, lonely is probably that man’s middle name.”

                  Lance gasps; it sends him tottering a bit. “You _know_ Keith? How?” He leans in a bit, without giving her time to answer, and stage-whispers, “He’s my fiancé, you know. But don’t tell him I told you.” He shakes a finger. “He’ll punch you. He’s a ninja.”

                  Nyma smiles at Lance in the way a mother smiles at a toddler. “Sure, Lance. Why don’t you go over and talk to him instead?”

                  Lance pouts. “He doesn’t want to. Keith doesn’t love me.”

                  “No? He’s your match, then?” When Lance nods dumbly, she continues, “Even better reason to talk to him now, before things get messy. I let things get messy with _my_ match, and it almost ended in heartbreak.”

                  “’snot messy.” Lance shrugs, taking a long sip of his drink. “Just… _Keith_.”

                  “Okay.” Nyma gives Lance a gentle nudge toward Keith. “Go over to ‘just Keith’; I’ve got other customers.”

                  She walks away before Lance can stop her; he pouts into his drink for a moment before looking at Keith again. He’s still glowing; it’s almost enough to make Lance feel the need to squint. Before Lance can look away, Keith glances over and locks eyes with him. Lance can see Keith’s widen, even from this distance; something in him must find this encouraging, because he stands, totters over to the stool next to Keith, and sits down with a loud sigh.

                  “Hey.” Lance finishes his drink—his seventh? Eighth?—and slides the glass away from him. “I saw you from across the bar, and I wanted to ask you a question.” He doesn’t give Keith a chance to say anything before he leans in, grinning, and says, “Did it hurt, when you fell from heaven?”

                  He thinks Keith might glare at him or try to punch him, but instead a corner of Keith’s mouth turns up in a smile. “Are you _flirting_ with me, Lance McClain?”

                  Encouraged, Lance shoots Keith an award-winning grin. “Maybe. Is it working?”

                  Keith takes a long drink of sparkling water. “Maybe,” he deadpans, and Lance honestly can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

                  “Well,” Lance drawls, “if it _is_ , then I should just tell you that if you were my appendix, I would _totally_ take you out.”

                  Keith frowns slightly. “But we’re already out.”

                  Lance blinks at Keith a few times. “Yes.” He waves for another drink, but Keith grabs his hand and brings it down to the table.

                  “Yeah, I think it’s time you stopped. If you’re drunk enough to flirt with me, then you’ve had too much to drink.”

                  Lance takes a long, long time to process Keith’s words because his hand is still on top of his, practically burning a hole in it. When he finally does—largely because Keith removes his hand—he doesn’t really understand what Keith’s said any better. “Keith. I am _fine_. I mean, I _was_ feeling a little off, but you turned me on.” He winks and leans one elbow on the bar, propping his head so that Keith registers slightly tilted.

                  Keith runs a hand down his face. “Lance, please. That’s enough.”

                  “Keeeiiith,” Lance whines. “I’m not drunk—I’m just intoxicated by you!”

                  Keith’s hands tighten around his glass. “You are _very_ drunk, and I can’t deal with this tonight.”

                  “Okay, okay, so I’m drunk.” Lance blows a raspberry. “Whatever.” He leans in closer to Keith, quickly, and Keith freezes. “But it’s no wonder the sky is so black right now—all of the blue is in your eyes.”

                  Keith stares back, unblinking, his glass forgotten on the bar. “Um… what? Lance—“ He pulls back slowly, turning his body so it angles away from Lance, his cheeks bright red. “They’re indigo,” he mutters, grabbing his glass again and downing it in one go like it’s a shot of vodka.

                  Lance sits back, hurt spiking through his chest and cutting momentarily through the haze of alcohol. “Oh.” He swivels so he’s facing the bar and stares at the bottles of spirits lining the wall. Then, because his brain still hasn’t quite caught up: “Well, this must be a museum, because you truly are a work of art. Indigo or not.”

                  Keith remains silent for a few moments. Then, he sighs and says, “You don’t mean any of this. Please go flirt with someone else.”

                  “Been there, tried that, forgot to buy the T-shirt. Besides, _you’re_ my fiancé. Keith Kogane-McClain. Or… McClain-Kogane? I can’t remember.”

                  “Lance, _stop_.” Keith runs a hand through his hair. “Not tonight. Not here.”

                  “ _Not tonight, not here_. More like, not ever, not anywhere.” Lance snorts and pushes himself away from the bar, standing. The world reels a bit before falling back into place. “Fuck you, Keith. Or, fuck me, Keith. What’s the difference? You don’t give a shit either way.” He staggers away before Keith can respond, heading for the table where Hunk and Pidge have been sitting for the past half-hour, drunkenly discussing scientific whatever.

                  He tries not to look back.

* * *

 

                  Keith _really_ wants to order a drink, but, like an idiot, he’d volunteered to be the designated driver and has to sit here now, suffering through that entire ordeal with Lance, completely sober.

                  At least, he tells himself it was suffering. If he’s being completely honest with himself—which he’s not—having Lance sitting less than a foot away from him and giving him cheesy pickup lines is probably something he could get used to.

                  Which he shouldn’t. He can’t. Because Lance doesn’t mean any of it. Keith is pretty sure sober Lance would flirt with anything that moved; drunk Lance would be just out of it enough to try to flirt with Keith. It doesn’t matter that those dumb pickup lines actually _worked_ on Keith; if he lets go, _now_ , he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to come back.

                  Lance’s loud, raucous laugh cuts across the bar; Keith automatically glances over his shoulder at the sound to see Lance practically draped over a table as he says something to Hunk, waving his hands dramatically. Keith thinks he’s too wrapped up to notice him staring, but Lance turns to point at Pidge and their eyes lock momentarily. Keith doesn’t know what he’s expecting—a wink maybe, or a glare—but instead, Lance tears his eyes away as quickly as they’d met Keith’s, his neck flushed—from alcohol, maybe, Keith tells himself.

                  A few more sparkling waters later, Shiro’s tapping Keith on the shoulder and telling him that they’re leaving; aside from the slightly too-warm smile on Shiro’s face, Keith can hardly tell that he’s been drinking. _Maybe_ he _should have been the designated driver,_ Keith thinks bitterly. He wonders if Lance has any liquor at his house.

                  The team all piles into Hunk’s SUV—Keith protested leaving his car at the bar overnight, but was overruled by Shiro. Keith tries to ignore the too-loud conversations in the backseat as he drops them off at their houses—first Hunk and Pidge, then Shiro, then Allura, and finally Coran—until it’s just him and Lance. Suddenly, it’s uncomfortably quiet. The radio is playing indie softly in the background, and Keith’s fingers tap against the wheel. Lance hums along distractedly to the radio, swaying back and forth slightly as he does so.

                  Then, quietly, Lance sings, “ _I’m not sure how much longer I can stay here with him_.” He keeps humming like nothing happened, but Keith feels the bottom of his stomach drop out.

                  “What did you just say?”

                  Lance stops humming. “ _I_ didn’t say anything.”

                  Keith isn’t used to Lance being passive-aggressive, and he bristles. “Were you _listening_ to me last night?”

                  Lance shrugs with the entire top half of his body. “Was I? The walls are pretty thin.”

                  Keith isn’t sure what he feels more strongly: anger or guilt. “Jesus, Lance, I need _privacy_.”

                  “And I need another drink, but that’s not going to happen.”

                  “You don’t even know what I was talking about, Lance! Not everything is about you!”

                  Lance blows out a loud breath. “Seems pretty obvious to me what you were talking about.”

                  Keith stops Hunk’s car in the driveway and roughly opens the door. “Stop, Lance. Go to sleep and talk to me tomorrow when you’re sober.”

                  Lance follows Keith up the front walk, grabbing for his arm. “Keeeiiith, I’m trying to fix this. Do I snore?”

                  Keith is about to turn on Lance and tell him to quit talking, but he stalls on the front porch and frowns at Lance, confused. “What?”

                  “Do I snore?” Lance shouts. Keith jumps, startled. “Or, wait—is it because I can’t cook? Or I’m messy? Or the weird farm paintings in the hallway—because those were Hunk’s, we can totally take those down—“

                  “Stop, stop!” Keith runs a hand down his face. “What are you talking about?”

                  “Duh.” Lance gestures vaguely. “Reasons you don’t want me as a roommate. Besides the obvious.” He gasps and staggers a bit, bracing himself on the door. “Wait! Is it _me_?” Lance must be _really_ drunk, because he acts as if the thought never occurred to him. “You’re not saying anything. _Of course_ you’re not saying anything because it’s true. You can’t stand me—“

                  “ _Lance.”_ Keith grabs Lance’s arms without even thinking about it and shakes him a bit to get him to stop talking. Beneath the frustration simmers something hotter, something fiercer. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.”

                  Lance’s eyes are wide and owlish. He looks like Keith just shook the last two drinks out of him—more sober, and a lot more shocked. “Wow,” he breathes, a toothy smile spreading over his face. “Keith, honey, I didn’t know you cared.”

                  Keith pushes Lance away, scowling again. “God, just get inside and go to bed.”

                  Lance winks. “Whatever you say, babe.” He pushes the door open and saunters inside; after a moment to take a few deep breaths and recollect himself, Keith follows him all the way up the stairs and past him to his room. He can hear the door knock against the doorway, not quite closing, and Lance’s humming resume—the same melody, over and over and over again. Keith ignores it, slipping silently into his own bedroom.

                  He tries not to look back.


	6. Chapter 6

                  The first thing Lance registers when he wakes up the next morning is pain, sharp and splitting through his skull. He groans and rolls over, shutting his eyes tightly against the sunlight filtering in through his curtains. It’s a Saturday, thank God, so he doesn’t have to collect himself for work.

                  Work… Vaguely, Lance remembers the team going out for celebratory drinks. He buries his face under his comforter and blinks a few times, trying to chase away sleep so he can focus on last night. Judging by the massive hangover he has, he must have had at least seven drinks… right?

                  With a groan, Lance sits up, squeezing his eyes together and covering them with a hand. Okay. They went to Nyma’s Bar, and Keith was the designated driver. That he remembers with absolute clarity. He sat with Pidge and Hunk for a while, but he left when they started talking about engineering and went… to the bar?

                  Lance rubs his eyes and presses the heels of his palms into them. Yes, he went to the bar and ordered another drink. A memory floats by—him flirting with Nyma—and he smirks. He’ll have to look and see if he landed her number later.

                  Wait.

                  Lance’s eyes fly open, and for a brief moment, he’s sure he’s going to throw up. Discordantly, he stumbles to his bathroom and braces himself on the counter, taking deep breaths.

                  Keith. Keith was there. The memory’s sharp and insistent—Keith with a glass of seltzer water, sitting at the bar, _right there_ as he flirted with Nyma. Stomach twisting, Lance tries desperately to recall what happened next. His mind hits a wall; there’s just… _nothing_. Gritting his teeth, Lance closes his eyes and runs through the events again.

                  Keith, sitting at the bar.

                  Keith, looking lonely.

                  Keith… talking to him?

                  As soon as the thought crosses his mind, it slips away, just out of reach, and Lance groans loudly. He straightens and gets a look of himself in the mirror; his hair is a mess and he looks like he just crawled out of a sewer or something. His face is greasy as hell—he must not have washed it the night before—which is more of a testament than anything as to just how drunk Lance was. He tries to go through his morning routine but doesn’t get any further than simply washing the oil off before his stomach is rolling again. His muscles ache as he straightens and runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame the curls; if anything, that only makes the mess worse. He wants desperately to shower, but if he doesn’t drink something _right now_ , he’s afraid he’s going to throw up. So, he grabs his glasses from his nightstand and begrudgingly shuffles downstairs.

                  He’s still feeling considerably out of it, so it’s really not a surprise that he brushes right past Keith sitting at the kitchen table and heads straight for the fridge without even registering his presence.

                  Keith swallows his sip of coffee, hard, and stares at Lance as he robotically fills a cup with water. Lance turns with the glass of water at his lips and finds himself face-to-face with a shocked Keith. His brain takes a few seconds to process what he’s seeing; then, like an electric shock, the world snaps into focus.

                  Lance drops his glass of water. Hunk had insisted on plastic cups—“Because you’re the clumsiest person I know, Lance”—so it bounces harmlessly off the tile floor, water spilling out and soaking Lance’s bare feet. He hardly notices.

                  “Um,” Lance says. He’s suddenly painfully aware of his hair, and his face, and his _glasses._ “Keith.”

                  Keith blinks a few times. “Lance. Um.”

                  Lance opens his mouth, not sure what he’s going to say but desperately needing to diffuse the tension, but his stomach gives a powerful squeeze, and he barely has enough time to panic before he vomits all over the floor.

                  _Great._

                  When Lance pulls himself back up into a standing position, feeling decidedly gross, he realizes that Keith is holding onto his upper arm and guiding him into the downstairs bathroom wordlessly. Lance sneaks a glance at him; his mouth is set into a firm line, his eyes unreadable.

                  Keith pushes Lance unceremoniously down on the edge of the bathtub. “Stay here. I’m getting you some water and Gatorade.” As he leaves, Lance blurrily registers a blush creeping up the back of his neck, and a wave of embarrassment and shame floods him.

                  Fucking fantastic. He _maybe_ talked to Keith about _something_ last night, _somehow_ ended up back here with him, and _definitely_ just made Keith take care of him like a baby. Lance wants to vanish through the floor, or maybe curl up and die.

                  He sits there pitifully until Keith returns and pushes a glass of water into his hands, refusing to look him in the eyes. “Drink all of it.”

                  Lance thinks that maybe he should make a joke about Keith being soft, but he can’t quite work past the vibrant embarrassment to muster up enough humor. Instead, he takes careful sips from the cup as Keith stands there awkwardly, still holding the Gatorade. Once Lance is done with the water, Keith passes him the Gatorade and leaves. Lance desperately hopes he isn’t trying to clean up the kitchen.

                  Once Lance feels well enough to stand without vomiting, he sneaks upstairs, trying fervently not to run into Keith, and takes a long, hot shower, most of which is spent sitting on the floor of the shower with his knees tucked to his chest, letting the water drill into his scalp and wondering when the hell he thought any of this was a good idea. He does his morning face routine a little more thoroughly than necessary, if only to avoid seeing Keith for as long as possible, dresses, and begrudgingly heads back downstairs.

                  He expects to see Keith sitting at the table, just like before, ready to make fun of him mercilessly, but he’s not there. The floor is clean, and an unexpected rush of gratitude and something else sweeps through Lance. He actually wants to thank Keith, but no matter where he looks, he can’t find him. When he glances out the front window, Hunk’s SUV is gone.

                  Lance sits at the table with his plate of toast but can’t bring himself to eat, his mind muddled with confusion.

                  Keith… cares?

                  _No_. He shakes his head and stands to throw away his food. Lance would have been more surprised if Keith stood by and did nothing as Lance threw up everywhere. It didn’t mean anything. Nothing’s changed.

                  A thought tickles at the back of Lance’s mind—a memory, just out of reach in the blackness of last night—but when he reaches for it, it scuttles away.

                  Nothing’s changed. Right?

* * *

 

                  Keith’s right fist hits the punching bag with enough force that it rocks backward. He punches again on the rebound with his left fist.

                  Right.

                  Left.

                  Right.

                  Lance.

                  Sweat streaming down his temples, Keith takes a step back and braces his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily.

                  He didn’t know that Lance wears glasses. Or has curly hair. Or would throw up five feet from him.

                  He also didn’t know that the sight would send a rush of concern through him, or that he would automatically move to support Lance before he crumpled to the ground.

                  God, it’s happening.

                  With a yell, Keith kicks the punching bag, _hard._ He doesn’t quite land it right, and it sends a shooting pain through his ankle, but he hardly feels it; he spins and kicks again, then punches, again and again and again. Maybe, if he hits hard enough, he can forget about the fluttering in his chest.

                  He can’t do this.

                  He wants to call Shiro, but he can’t. This is something he can’t share with _anyone_ , not anymore. This… this is dangerous.

                  Keith’s not sure how long he spends at the gym, pummeling the punching bag with his fists and feet and elbows, but when he finally leaves, exhausted, he has six missed messages waiting for him on his phone.

                  **Shiro: Hey, Keith. Hunk and I are ready to go pick up the cars whenever you are.**

**Shiro: Keith?**

**Shiro: Text me when you’re done, okay?**

**Pidge: Dude, I think Hunk and I invented sentient AI last night for the lions. Call me.**

**Lance: Hey, I’m sorry about this morning. When you get home, can we talk?**

**Lance: Also, I didn’t know you were such a softie ;)**

                  Keith sits down heavily on the wooden locker room bench and sends a quick text to Shiro that he’ll pick him up in ten. He stares at Lance’s texts a little longer than necessary, not quite sure what he’s feeling but sure there’s some annoyance in the mix, before he dials Pidge’s number.

                  They pick up after half a ring. “Keith, thank God! You’ll never believe this shit.”

                  “Or understand it, likely. Continue.”

                  While Pidge talks his ear off about turning the lions into sentient beings, he packs his stuff and begins the drive to Shiro’s house. It feels like going home, like he’s been away on vacation for a few days. Keith’s heart aches to go back, damn the government, damn Shiro’s insistency on Keith moving out. It’s not until he pulls up outside the house that he realizes that what he really misses isn’t the building sitting in front of him.

                  “—so the lions can fly all on their own, in case something happens to the pilots!” Pidge finishes excitedly. “Basically, Hunk and I are geniuses.”

                  “That was never in question, Pidge.” Keith opens the SUV door and climbs out. “Look, I have to go, but I look forward to programming your AI system.”

                  Pidge blows a loud raspberry. “ _You?_ Keith, I will _fight_ you if you don’t let me program this myself.”

                  “I’d win that fight. Black belt in Tae Kwon Do and all.”

                  “Fucking _try me_ , Kogane.” They hang up before Keith can respond; a small smile on his lips, Keith pockets his phone and goes to ring the doorbell. His hand stops just short of the button; jaw tightening, Keith reaches for the doorknob instead and lets himself in. After all, it’s still basically his house, if only for a little while longer.

                  At least, that’s what Keith keeps telling himself.

                  Shiro’s waiting for him in the living room. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised that Keith just walked in, although his forehead creases slightly in a frown. “You look tired,” he comments, following Keith out to the SUV. “Were you at the gym?”

                  “Yeah.” Keith starts the SUV and begins the drive to Hunk and Pidge’s house. “I needed to… work out some things.”

                  Carefully, Shiro says, “Lance things?”

                  Keith’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

                  “Come on, Keith—“

                  “I mean it, Shiro!” Keith’s heart is pounding. “I’m done talking about it.”

                  “You just need to give it time. Remember, patience yields—“

                  “Fuck _off_!” Keith takes the corner a lot harder than necessary, sending both of them toppling to the side. “You already kicked me out of our house—why not just finish the job and _leave me the hell alone_?”

                  Tense silence falls over the car. Keith knows that he’s gone too far, but the fire burning through his chest doesn’t care enough to feel apologetic. Instead, he focuses all of his energy on the road and ignores the dumbstruck look on Shiro’s face.

                  It’s not until Keith is pulling into Hunk’s driveway that Shiro says, softly but forcefully, “Fine. If that’s what you really want.”

                  “Yes,” Keith says stubbornly, even as the beginnings of remorse trickle through him. “It is.”

                  Hunk and Pidge join them in the car, and if they notice the hostility between Keith and Shiro, they don’t acknowledge it. Instead, they fill the SUV with chatter about the lions’ potential AI system that Keith mindlessly listens to until his anger drains away completely, leaving him numb.

                  Once they reach Nyma’s Bar, Keith trades Hunk’s SUV for his 1975 Stutz Blackhawk. He’s not sure what makes him happier: the feel of familiar leather under his hands or the comfortable quiet that envelops him as he settles into the driver’s seat. He watches Hunk and Shiro drive away, Pidge following close behind in Allura’s Buick. Then, he sits there in the parking lot, the car purring gently underneath him, for five more minutes, trying to think of somewhere he can go that isn’t back to Lance.

                  His phone buzzes in his pocket; for a brief moment, he thinks it’s Shiro, and his heart jumps into his throat. He fumbles to pull it out of his pocket, and feels all the anticipation rush out of him when he sees Lance’s name flashing across the screen.

                  **Lance: I made lunch, if you’re interested :) lmk**

Keith briefly considers throwing his phone out the window. Instead, he drops it into the passenger seat and begins the drive back to their house, clenching his jaw tightly like it’s going to make the butterflies in his stomach dissipate.

                  Lance made him lunch. God, they’re practically domestic.

                  What the fuck is Keith going to do?

* * *

 

                  Lance is ready to just say “fuck it” and throw away the second box of macaroni and cheese he made when the front door swings open and Keith walks in, his hair pulled up in a messy ponytail and wearing a tank top and shorts combination that does something to Lance’s insides. He looks angry—angrier than usual, that is—and he doesn’t make eye contact with Lance as he crosses through the kitchen and inspects the contents of the pot still sitting on the stove.

                  “I’m lactose intolerant,” is all Keith says before he turns and practically sprints upstairs. A minute later, Lance hears the shower turn on.

                  “Of course he’s lactose intolerant,” Lance mutters, scraping the macaroni and cheese into a container and shoving it in the fridge. “Because nothing can ever be fucking easy.” He throws the pot in the sink for later, flops on the living room couch, and calls Hunk.

                  Lance is almost worried that he’s not going to pick up, but after a few rings, Hunk answers. “Hey, Lance. I guess Keith made it home?”

                  “He’s lactose intolerant!” Lance practically shrieks. “I swear to God, it’s like living with an alien! If they existed, which they don’t,” he adds quickly, because he’s not losing the alien argument because _Keith_ doesn’t know how to be a normal human being.

                  “You’re overreacting.”

                  “No, I am _not._ Keith is just an asshole!”

                  Hunk’s quiet for a moment. Then, he says, “I think he and Shiro had an argument today; we went to go get the cars from the bar, and on the ride over, he and Shiro looked pretty rough. Maybe give him the benefit of the doubt.”

                  The shower turns off in the background, so quieter, Lance says, “Hunk, I have tried _everything_ , but Keith just doesn’t like me.” He smirks, but it’s half-hearted. “Honestly, what’s not to like?”

                  “Have you two talked yet?”

                  Sullenly, Lance says, “No. He won’t even look at me.” Then, fearfully: “Hunk, did I do something last night? At the bar?”

                  “What?” Hunk sounds confused. “Why are you asking me?”

                  “Well…” Lance says, rubbing the back of his neck.

                  “Wait. Did you black out?” Hunk asks worriedly. “Lance—“

                  “I know, I know,” Lance groans. “Spare me the lecture. I think I talked to Keith, but I can’t remember what I said, and you know how I get when I’m drunk.”

                  Hunk pauses. “Honestly, I’m not sure. You came over to Pidge and me about half an hour before we left, and you might have mentioned Keith? I was drunk last night too, Lance.”

                  “You had three beers!” Lance hesitates. “I think. Whatever. You have to remember _something_!”

                  Hunk sighs. “I remember you avoiding Keith, I guess. I mean, you looked at him _once_ and your face got all red and then you refused to talk about him at all. I don’t know what happened before that, but…”

                  Hunk trails off. “But…?” Lance prompts. He hears footsteps coming downstairs and sinks lower into the couch, hoping that Keith won’t see him.

                  “…but I’ve been out drinking with you before, Lance, and you’re not an angry drunk. And I know you have a thing for Keith, so if I had to make an educated guess as to what went down between you two last night—“

                  “Okay okay okay!” Lance hisses. “Good guess, but you’re forgetting the fact that it’s _Keith_ we’re talking about, so no, nope, don’t remember, didn’t happen. End of discussion.”

                  “Lance—“

                  “Gotta go, buddy, talk to you later!” Lance ends the call, flops over so he’s lying on the couch, and groans loudly.

                  He can hear Keith in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinet doors, and soon the faint smell of spices wafts into the living room. Lance closes his eyes and breathes in deeply; he can almost pretend it’s Hunk, cooking lunch for them like always.

                 Almost.

                  He waits, fiddling on his phone, until he hears Keith’s plate clatter into the sink before standing. Keith’s headed for the front door again.

                  “Wait!” Lance says, taking a few steps toward him. “Where are you going?”

                  Keith turns halfway, so he’s not quite facing Lance but Lance can see enough of his face to be able to read the tension there. “Out. Do I need your permission?”

                  “Jesus, no need to be so dramatic.” Lance crosses his arms. “In my text, I asked if we could talk? Ring any bells?”

                  Keith scowls. “Not in the mood.”

                  “You’re literally _never_ in the mood. Can you stop being so emo for once and just _sit down_ so we can discuss this like adults?”

                  Keith raises an eyebrow, but if Lance isn’t mistaken, he looks a bit nervous. “’This?’”

                  “You know.” Lance gestures vaguely. “The marriage thing?”

                  Keith looks a bit taken aback. “Oh. Didn’t… didn’t we already do that?”

                  Lance frowns. “If you consider filling out paperwork at Shiro’s house ‘talking’—which it wasn’t.”

                  Keith hesitates; then, his mouth turns down at the corners. “I’m busy.”

                  “’Busy?’” Lance repeats, dumbfounded. “Look, I’m sorry if this doesn’t fit into your schedule or whatever, but in case you’ve _forgotten_ , we have less than a week to organize a ceremony! You can’t keep putting this off!”

                  “Watch me.” Keith turns and steps toward the door.

                  “Oh my God, _grow up_ , Keith!” Lance snaps, his patience wearing thin.

                  Keith freezes. “What,” he says flatly.

                  “You fucking heard me.” Lance’s heart is pounding.

                  Keith turns to face Lance, his eyes hard. “I’m not the one who needs to _grow up_ , Lance.”

                  “Right, so _I’m_ the immature one for wanting to talk about our problems?”

                  “Yes!”

                  “Fuck you, Keith.”

                  Surprise flickers across Keith’s face for a brief moment before it’s replaced by fury. “You know what, that’s it.” He grabs his bag from the ground by the door where he left it and slings it over his shoulder. “I don’t give a damn about the government. I’m not going to _marry_ you, Lance, because I don’t love you! I don’t even _like_ you! We’re not friends, and we’re not fiancés.”

                  “Wow, Keith! Tell me how you feel! Why don’t you just fucking punch me in the face while you’re at it, since you seem so intent on making me feel like a fucking waste of space?”

                  Keith looks, for a moment, like he’s actually considering it. Instead, he sets his jaw. “Don’t pretend like you care. It’s getting really fucking old.”

                  Wait. What? “I’m sorry, am I not allowed to be upset when my government-prescribed soulmate tells me that he basically hates my guts? News flash, asshole, I have feelings too!”

                  Keith runs a hand down his face. “Of course you’re allowed to be upset…!” His shoulders slump; he lets his gym bag drop to the ground. Lance can visibly see the energy leak out of him, all at once, and it’s such an unusual occurrence for Keith to come out of a furious rage without actually punching something that Lance’s brain hits a brick wall. “God, what are we doing?” Keith groans.

                  “Fighting,” Lance says, like it’s obvious. “We always fight. Ask literally anyone.”

                  Keith laughs bitterly. “Right. Because you… because we don’t get along.”

                  Hunk’s voice floats through Lance’s subconscious. _I think you_ do _get along_. Lance tells it to kindly mind its own business. “Ten points to Gryffindor!”

                  “Yeah,” Keith says, and if Lance didn’t know better, he would think that Keith sounds disappointed. “That’s what I thought.” He kicks his shoes off—Lance hadn’t even noticed him put them on—and brushes past Lance. Lance hears his feet against the stairs and the faint sound of his door closing.

                  Vaguely, Lance gets the sense that he’s missing something—that he only has half the pieces to the puzzle—but when he tries to grab onto it, it slips through his fingers. He attributes the feeling to the gap in his memory of the previous night, although that doesn’t comfort him in the slightest.

                  It occurs to Lance that they still haven’t talked about the wedding, and he groans. He can only put off telling his family about him and Keith for so long, especially since they have _less than a week_ to actually organize some sort of official ceremony.

                  What the fuck is Lance going to do?

* * *

 

                  Keith is actually, officially, irrevocably fucked. He’s stepped over the edge, crossed into the ‘No Trespassing’ zone, cannonballed straight into the deep end. He’s in free-fall with no end in sight, hurtling through the dark at a million miles an hour with nothing to anchor him. The world may as well be spinning the goddamn other direction for all the disorientation Keith is experiencing. He feels like any moment the ground is going to fall out from underneath his feet and send him tumbling into magma, or that gravity will fail and he’ll be ejected into outer space, the endless vacuum, to be incinerated by stars or suffocated.

                  He likes Lance McClain. It hits him like the punch in the face Lance requested when Keith thought he could force the feelings out of him by telling Lance he hated him. It leaves him breathless and numb, so much so that all of his rage at Lance and at himself rushes out of him suddenly, giving him whiplash. It stuns him, just enough, that for a moment he thinks that he doesn’t want to fight, he doesn’t want to argue—he wants to tell Lance that he’s sorry.

                  It leaves his heart just unguarded enough for Lance to come in and stomp all over it.

                  Of course they don’t get along. Of course they always fight. Of course they’re fire and ice, blue and red, yin and yang—total opposites, always at odds.

                  Of course Lance doesn’t like him back.

                  What the _fuck_ is Keith going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this from the Oklahoma City airport--about to fly back to Wisconsin!!! (Which means I edited and wrote most of this surrounded by hundreds of people.......)
> 
> Here are the links to the cars that each of the paladins and Allura and Coran drive:
> 
>  
> 
> [Keith](https://assets3.thrillist.com/v1/image/1605904/size/tmg-article_tall.jpg)  
> [Lance](http://blogmedia.dealerfire.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/190/2016/06/Official-2017-Toyota-Prius-v-Release-Date-and-Design_o.jpg)  
> [Pidge](http://www.autoguide.com/auto-news/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/2012-Mazda2-green.jpg)  
> [Hunk](http://images.nysportscars.com/pictures/71764361.jpg)  
> [Shiro](http://www.moibbk.com/images/ford-escape-black-5.jpg)  
> [Allura](http://hanabi.autoweek.com/sites/default/files/styles/gen-738-415/public/b-1b.jpg?itok=TZqjA-bh)  
> [Coran](http://media.npr.org/assets/img/2011/05/31/FordPinto_wide-aa4b7f14f4dde2bc2b9fd16e77003fb01626dee2-s900-c85.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter.... the plot thickens!


	7. Chapter 7

                  Sunday passes in fits and starts. One minute Lance is lying on the couch, mindlessly playing video games as the hours slip by, and the next Keith is stomping around the kitchen and the seconds stretch into minutes into eternities. It wouldn’t be so horrible if Keith would just _talk_ to him, but he won’t even look at Lance, much less try to make conversation.

                  Lance has just about had it, and Hunk isn’t helping. When Lance calls him again Sunday morning after Keith practically bends over backwards to avoid Lance as he’s getting breakfast, all Hunk has to say is, “It’s _Keith_.”

                  “What the hell does _that_ mean?” Lance groans.

                  “I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one with a crush on him.”

                  Bitterly, Lance says, “Yeah, not so much.” He stayed up half the night running Keith’s words over and over in his head, and he’s come to the conclusion that Keith’s an asshole and he’s not interested. He’s still working on getting his emotions to reconcile with his decision.

                  “What?” Hunk sounds surprised. “What happened?”

                  “Oh, you know… ‘Lance, I hate you, we’re not friends, go fuck yourself.’ The usual. What were you saying again about us getting along?”

                  “God, I’m sorry, Lance. Do you want to go out today to get your mind off of it?”

                  Lance really wants to say yes, but… “No, I’m really tired. I think I’ll just play some video games and wallow in self-pity.”

                  Hunk laughs, but it’s half-hearted. “Well, if you change your mind, call me.”

                  “You know it.”

                  That’s the first phone call he makes. The second is post-lunch, after Keith’s left the house in a flurry of black hair and terse silence, and it takes Lance about five minutes to work up the courage to make it. Then, after a few rings, he starts to lose his nerve and moves to abort the call, when there’s the _click_ of someone answering.

                  “Lance!”

                  Lance swallows the knot of nervousness in his throat. “ _Hola, mamá_.”

                  His mom starts babbling to him in Spanish, telling him about all he’s missing back home in Varadero, and Lance tries to listen but her words keep getting drowned out by the pounding of his heart.

                  He can’t do this. He can’t sit here and tell his _mamá,_ the person he loves the most in the entire world, about Keith and the wedding. He can’t listen to her congratulations knowing that, deep down, it’s all a lie, one that will be over within a month. A very small part of him wants to pretend like nothing’s happened and make sure his family never knows about any of this.

                  But he can’t hide this from his family any more.

                  “ _Mamá_ ,” he says once his mother takes a breath, his voice coming out slightly pinched. He continues in Spanish, “I need to tell you something.” He pauses, trying to figure out how to say what he knows he has to, and decides to just be blunt. “I’ve been matched.”

                  He thinks the pain in his voice is obvious, but it must not be, because his mother exclaims, “Lance, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you! It feels like just yesterday that you took your first steps, and now you’re getting married! Who’s the lucky girl?” She giggles. “Or guy, I suppose.”

                  Lance’s stomach clenches. “His name is Keith.”

                  His mother sighs happily. “How wonderful that my Lance is getting married. I don’t suppose you’ll be sending us plane tickets so we can attend your wedding,” she teases.

                  _If there’s even a wedding to attend_. “Of course, _mamá_.”

                  His mother starts rambling again, about preparations and the family and taking vacation time from her job giving surfing lessons at the beach, and it doesn’t take long for Lance to get lost in the sound of her voice again. Terror, fresh and insistent, floods through him. It’s happening. His family is going to fly from Varadero to Buffalo, New York, in anticipation of a happy wedding, and he’s going to disappoint them all. He’s not sure he’ll be able to bear it.

                  He’s so wrapped up in the swirling storm of anxiety that he doesn’t notice his mother’s voice in his ear, saying his name, until she yells it, in the way she always did when she caught him in some sort of trouble. “ _Dios_ , _mi hijo_ , are you even listening to me?”

                  “Of course, _mamá_.” A smart retort dances at the edge of his lips, but he swallows it; he’s been around Keith too long if he’s even considering talking back to his mother.

                  There’s a moment of silence between them. Then, Lance’s mother says, quietly, “You’ve met this Keith, yes?”

                  Lance opts for honesty. “I knew him before the match.”

                  “And you’re happy to be marrying him, yes?”

                  Lance wants to tell her that he is—wants it more than anything—because she can’t worry about him, can’t think that her son is one of the few whose matches don’t work out. He couldn’t bear it. But when he tries to reassure her, the words stick in his throat, and he almost chokes on them.

                  “Oh, Lance,” his mother says sadly, pityingly, “and to think I got so worked up over the wedding, when you’re not happy about it—“

                  “No, no, _mamá_!” Lance exclaims, finding his voice. “I’m happy! I just… got distracted for a moment.”

                  “Are you sure?” His mother sounds skeptical. She could always read him better than any of his siblings, like they were connected more than just mother and son. “Because if you’re not happy, I can call—“

                  “ _Mamá_.” Lance plasters a wide smile onto his lips; even though his mother can’t see it, it gives him a small jolt of happiness, just enough to sound convincing when he says, “I couldn’t be happier.” He swallows hard. “I love Keith.”

                  The words burn his lips, but they do the trick. “Oh, my Lance, falling in love!” his mother exclaims. Lance can practically see the bright, rosy red staining her cheeks, her curly hair bouncing against her shoulders, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiles broadly. “I can’t wait to meet him!”

                  Lance tries to smile again, but he can’t quite manage it. “I’m sure he feels the same.”

                  There’s a muted crash on his mother’s end of the call, followed by a high-pitched wail that could only be Lance’s little sister, Nina. His mother pulls the phone away to yell something unintelligible, then returns long enough to bid farewell to Lance before she hangs up.

                  Lance stares at the phone in his hands. He wishes he hadn’t called. He’s glad he did. The two emotions war inside of him until he sighs and pushes them both away, deep down where he can’t feel them, and makes a third phone call.

* * *

 

                  Keith returns from the gym, sweaty and exhausted, to find Lance sitting on the couch, surrounded by chip bags and blankets, playing some sort of racing game. His heart does the same nerve-wracking _ka-thump_ it’s done for the past twenty-four hours every time he’s seen Lance; Keith wants to cut it out of his chest. Instead, he scowls and makes for the stairs.

                  “The wedding’s next Saturday,” Lance says nonchalantly from the couch.

                  Keith stutters to a halt, his right foot already on the first stair. “Excuse me?”

                  “You heard me.” Lance tries to make an impossible turn, and his car skids off into the abyss, his screen flashing black.

                  Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way his heart thuds in his chest when Lance says _wedding_ , but Keith turns and snaps, “What part of ‘I’m not going to marry you’ did you not understand, Lance?”

                  He thinks that Lance flinches, but he can’t be quite certain. “Hey, if you want to get your mullet ass carted off to jail for Evasion, be my guest, but I have a reputation to uphold. Also, how would I keep up my skincare routine in jail? This face—“ Lance sticks a flat hand underneath his jaw. “—needs its products.”

                  Keith flounders. He’ll admit that he’s considered just making a run for it countless times, but it never seemed worth it. One month spent married to Lance McClain versus six months in jail and a fine? It wasn’t a hard choice. Hell, it still isn’t a hard choice, but it’s certainly one Keith isn’t happy with, all things considering.

                  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Keith bites out. “I’m not going to jail on your account.”

                  “Too late. I’m flattered.” Lance risks a quick glance over his shoulder to send Keith a smirk. If Keith didn’t know any better, though, he’d think that Lance’s mockery lacks a bit of its usual lightness; the corners of his mouth don’t lift up quite so far, and there’s something heavy in his eyes that Keith can’t quite place. Of course, Keith knows better; he knows Lance.

                  At least, he tells himself he knows Lance.

                  “What if I said I was busy next Saturday?”

                  “Then I would tell you to cancel whatever oh-so-important plans you have, because I already called the Department of Marriage office in Buffalo and put us on the schedule.”

                  “How responsible,” Keith says dryly.

                  “That’s me, Lance Responsible McClain.”

                  Keith snorts. “More like a break in character.”

                  Lance glares at Keith. “I’ll have you know that I’m very responsible! I always remember to pay my bills, and I just went grocery shopping. So you’re welcome.”

                  Keith raises an eyebrow. “All you bought was milk, macaroni and cheese, apples, and chips.”

                  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

                  Keith finds himself smiling, and the sudden jolt that hits him reminds him of the feeling of stepping off of a step, thinking it’s the last, only to find yourself tumbling through empty air for a brief, terrifying moment. Because Lance is staring at him, the pause screen on his game blinking behind him, not quite smiling but _almost_ , like he doesn’t want to but can’t help himself, and happiness quickly turns to hurt when Keith remembers that none of this is real or can be real. Whatever is happening right now is only temporary, until they can get the government off their asses and file for divorce and pretend like this never even happened. A week ago, Keith couldn’t wait to see the end; he tries desperately to call back that feeling, because the not-so-gentle throbbing of his heart right now isn’t something he’s enjoying in the slightest.

                   All it takes is a quick reflection back to the previous night, to Lance glaring at him and saying, ‘Fuck you, Keith,’ for Keith’s smile to drop off of his face. “I have to go shower,” he says curtly, turning quickly and heading upstairs—although not quick enough to miss the flash of hurt that flickers across Lance’s face. Irrationally, Keith thinks that Lance has no right to feel hurt—not after last night, not after what Keith felt and is still feeling—but he shakes off the thought. After all, he was the one who said Lance had a right to be upset. It’s not like Keith is pulling any of his punches.

                  He strips quickly and steps into the shower, letting scalding-hot water drill into his skin, burning away salt and skin and shame. Lance is right. He didn’t think he’d ever admit that to himself, but just this once, it’s true. Lance said that Keith was being childish, and he was right. Adults know how to deal with emotions. They know what they’re feeling, how to convey feelings to others, how to handle them themselves. They don’t resist the pull of emotions when they come calling.

                  Keith can’t do that. Not that it really matters now. Even if Keith _could_ get a handle on whatever-the-fuck he feels for Lance, it would be in vain. Lance… Lance isn’t interested.

                  Keith turns the water hotter and hotter until he’s almost flinching away from the heat. The pain on his skin drives away the pain in his heart, narrowing his focus on the material world. That’s what he understands best, anyway.

                  It doesn’t matter that he’d maybe like to hear Lance dropping pickup lines on him again, like the other night. It doesn’t matter that he can pick up Lance’s snoring from the other room, and it’s gone from infuriating to comforting. It doesn’t matter that when he woke up this morning, his first thought was as to whether Lance was up yet.

                  Because Lance would flirt with anything that moved, and Keith was nothing special—just convenient. Because Keith’s presence in the room next to Lance’s is probably just another burden on him. Because Lance’s first thought in the morning would never be Keith, unless it’s dreading to wake another day in the same house as him.

                  It’s possible Keith has fucked up majorly, and he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to fix it.

                  His first instinct is to call Shiro, but he shoves the thought down quickly. No. He smashed that bridge to bits and burned the pieces, and even if he regrets it, he sure as hell isn’t going to go crawling back to Shiro with _relationship problems_. After all, wasn’t Shiro the one who told him to deal with his problems like an adult?

                  Keith’s beginning to think that he doesn’t really know what that even means—‘like an adult.’

                  Finally, he turns the shower off, dresses, and sits on his bed— _his_ bed, for a month, at least, God help him—staring at his hands. They’re bare, his fingerless gloves sitting on his dresser; an image flashes across Keith’s mind of chestnut-brown fingers intertwined with his, and he blinks to chase it away. If Keith thought putting a name to his feelings for Lance would somehow diminish their effect, he was wrong; if anything, it’s augmented them. Which is _just great_.

                  Saturday. The clock begins Saturday, ticking down the seconds to Lance’s inevitable departure. The timer hasn’t even started yet and Keith can already feel the pressing weight of it, reminding him with every passing minute and hour that his time with Lance is limited, that none of it is real. Mocking him, mocking his feelings. Keith doesn’t know if he can stand it.

                  On Saturday, he’ll be married to Lance McClain, and it will be the beginning of the end.

* * *

 

                  Keith doesn’t come downstairs, and Lance wonders briefly if he went to bed. Then, he forces himself to decide that he doesn’t care and resumes his video game. He plays for hours, stopping only to scrape together a measly dinner. Damn, his diet is going to go to shit without Hunk here to cook for him. Not for the first time, Lance feels a pang of longing for his best friend. Pidge doesn’t even live that far away—less than ten miles—but, to Lance, it feels like half a planet away. He’s been by Hunk’s side for nearly all of his life—through school, through college, through everything—and without him there, it _hurts._

                  Of course, Hunk must not feel as empty as Lance does, since he was the one to move out in the first place.

                  A wave of bitterness rushes over Lance, surprising him enough that he drives his racecar right off a cliff. He swallows, setting the controller down on the couch, and stands. It isn’t particularly late, but he feels the pull of exhaustion in the drooping of his eyelids and the lethargy in his legs as he ascends the stairs and seals himself in his bedroom.

                  That night, he dreams of Keith, holding him by the shoulders and looking him in the eyes and saying, “There’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.” He wakes up with Keith’s name on his lips and butterflies in his stomach.

                  Getting over Keith Kogane is going to be harder than he thought.

                  They should carpool to work, but instead, Keith roars away in his obnoxiously red muscle car, leaving an unhealthy amount of exhaust in his wake. He doesn’t even bother to acknowledge Lance before he leaves; Lance eats his Lucky Charms sourly and pretends that it doesn’t hurt.

                  When he pulls into the parking lot at Altean Innovations, Inc., he parks his blue Prius as far from Keith’s car as possible and enters the building. The others’ cars are there already, which means Lance doesn’t have time for coffee, so he’ll have to suffer through the day un-caffeinated. Fan-fucking-tastic.

                  Lance may not be the most perceptive, but he would have to be legally blind not to notice, when he enters the lab, the raw tension between Shiro and Keith. They’re on opposite ends of the room, and Keith is pointedly looking anywhere but at Shiro. Keith’s eyes automatically go to Lance when he enters the room, but they dart away as quickly as they came.

                  Perhaps spurred by Keith’s general asshole-ness, Lance says by way of greeting, “Hey, team! Wedding’s this Saturday, by the way, so clear your schedules.”

                  Keith’s face goes as red as his car. Beside him, Pidge chokes on their rather large mug of black coffee. “Mazel tov,” they cough, rubbing at their mouth.

                  Hunk holds his hands up. “You don’t even have to ask, Lance. I’ll cook whatever you need, no problem.” Lance can see how his eyes nervously flit to Keith, though, who’s uncharacteristically quiet. Judging by the color of his cheeks, though, Lance thinks he’s maybe one comment away from exploding.

                  “I’m glad you two got everything sorted out,” Shiro says warmly, and Lance doesn’t even have to be looking at Keith to see his head snap up at the sound of Shiro’s voice.

                  “Can we just get to work?” Keith growls.

                  Lance opens his mouth to make a joke—maybe that Keith sounds like a grumpy old lady, maybe that his face looks hot enough to cook on—but then Keith’s gaze lands on him, sharp and angry and hateful, and he swallows his words.

                  It occurs to Lance that, before then, he’d never _really_ seen Keith look at him like that—like Lance is a dark spot of grease on an otherwise bleach-white existence. It opens a wide hole in Lance’s chest that he struggles and fails to immediately fill. He can feel the rest of his team’s eyes on him, and he quickly drags a smile from somewhere deep, deep inside him.

                  “No problemo,” he chirps. “Where are Allura and Coran?”

                  “They’re meeting in person with our investor to discuss details of the project,” Shiro says. “Today, we’re going to begin designing the framework of the prototypes. Keith and Hunk will be working on the mechanics of it, you and Pidge will be determining the strengths of metals and other materials needed for space travel and atmospheric reentry, and I’ll be assembling an official portfolio for this investor and other potential buyers.”

                  “Sounds great,” Lance says, grinning. It’s only eighty percent faked. At least Keith will be on the other side of the building for the entire day, where he won’t have to see him.

                  Keith and Hunk leave with duplicates of the blueprints to make the trip to the engineering and fabrication labs. Shiro copies all the files with a quick swipe of his hand and exits just as quickly. The door has barely closed behind him before Pidge leans forward and says, “So, t-minus five days before you and Keith tie the knot.”

                  Lance feels his stomach twist. “You know, Pidge, for once, Keith is right. We should get to work—“

                  Pidge snorts. “You hate work.”

                  They’re not wrong. “Yes, but I’m also not looking forward to the trademark ‘Shiro and Allura talking-to’ that will definately occur if we don’t get something done.”

                  Taking a long sip of coffee, Pidge says, “Point made. But we’re not idiots, Lance. Keith was at least four times surlier today than usual, and I don’t think it’s because you kept him up with your snoring.”

                  “Rude,” Lance mutters.

                  Pidge pinches the bridge of their nose. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, _again_ , but have you guys even _talked_ about it? Because I know you two, and if anyone can manage to get married without actually discussing the finer details, it’s you and Keith.”

                  Bristling, Lance says, “We _talked_.”

                  Pidge raises an eyebrow.

                  “Okay,” Lance concedes, “We talked for a few seconds before Keith started being an asshole and effectively ended negotiations. So, I made a call. He doesn’t give a shit about talking now, I figured he wouldn’t give one about the wedding.” _The wedding_. It sends a thrum of anxiety through Lance, sharp and piercing and insistent with its reminder that he’s a few days away from bonding with Keith in holy matrimony.

                  “Well, I’m done trying to interpret Keith’s every step, so I have no advice for you there.” Pidge takes a long sip of their coffee, then wordlessly hands it to Lance. He sticks his tongue out at them; they know he hates black coffee. “I _can_ tell you that Keith has, like, one volume setting, and it’s eleven on a scale of one to ten, so usually when he seems angry he’s actually something else.” She points a quick finger at Lance, eyes lighting up. “Wait, wait, actually—do you remember when he drank that prototype anti-gravity juice and spit it right into Hunk’s face?”

                  Lance does. It was about a month after he came to the team, and another section of Altean Innovations, Inc. was in the final stages of producing an anti-gravity juice that would induce weightlessness in whoever drank it. Keith was the only one brave enough to take a sip, and it must have been revolting, because he spat it right back into Hunk’s face. After a moment of confusion, Hunk and Keith both started floating—just barely, but enough to make them wobble unsteadily in the air—and Keith had laughed, his face cracked wide with a toothy smile, and Lance’s heart had fallen straight out of his chest.

                  It was the moment he realized that there was more to Keith than angry eyes and clipped words. And, God, Lance wanted to see it every day.

                  Lance swallows. “Yeah, I remember. I didn’t know Keith could smile.”

                  Shiro’s face appears in the doorway just then, forehead creased. “Any progress?”

                  Pidge gives him a thumbs-up and rattles off some jargon that leaves Lance and Shiro equally as confused. “Right. Keep it up, guys.” He gives them a once over, like he’s trying to decide if he needs to stay to babysit or not, and then moves on, letting the door swoosh shut behind him.

                  Pidge groans. “Shiro can be such a _dad_ sometimes.” She swipes a few things up off the table and into a hologram—diagrams of folds in space, equations, black hole models, and _this_ Lance understands. “How do you feel about wormholes?”

                  He works with Pidge on their slightly-insane concept of giving the lion spaceships the ability to open wormholes in space, but he’s only half-focused on work. The other half of him is drifting.

                  Saturday, he and Keith will be married. A month from Saturday, Keith will be gone so quickly it’ll probably send Lance reeling. It hasn’t even happened yet, and already Lance can feel the gaping loss in him. He tries desperately to squish it down, deep inside him, because he can’t feel this, can’t think this. Keith wants nothing to do with him, and he needs to want nothing to do with Keith. It should be easy; Keith’s surly, and rude, and generally not Lance’s type. He just needs to distance himself, to keep riling Keith up until it’s impossible to even remember what Keith looked like with laughter lighting up his face.

                  Easy.

                  On Saturday, he’ll be married to Keith Kogane, and it will be the beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I can squeeze in one more chapter before I start college, fingers crossed, but after mid-August I don't know how often I'll have time to write, so updates may be more spaced out.
> 
> I hope you all are liking it so far :) Next chapter should be interesting...


	8. Chapter 8

                  When Keith wakes up on Saturday morning, it’s snowing. For a brief, delirious moment, he thinks that it’s a blizzard, and they’ll have to cancel the wedding, but when he takes a better look out the window, he sees fat, lazy snowflakes fluttering to the ground, already collecting in a thin sheet of white.

                  It’s beautiful, and Keith hates it.

                  He can still hear Lance snoring through the wall, so he softly makes his way downstairs. His phone buzzes in his pocket midway through making coffee, and he’s still tired enough that it makes him jump. He doesn’t even check who it is before answering with a weary, “Hello?”

                  “Oh, thank God. Keith.”

                  “Hey, Hunk.” Keith rummages through the fridge and fishes a carton of strawberries out of the far back. “You’re up already?”

                  “Dude, it’s already 7:00. The wedding’s in, like, three hours and Lance isn’t answering his phone.”

                  Keith squints at the clock on the stove. 7:13. Damn. He was going to try to hit the gym this morning. “Well, we don’t really have to be there until half an hour before, right?”

                  “Oh my God, you two are the most unorganized people I know. Just—wake up Lance and make sure he remembers to stop by the Department of Marriage office to pick up the rings, okay?”

                  _The rings._ “Relax, Hunk. It’ll be fine.” He doesn’t say that neither of them want it to be a big deal, so _unorganized_ is probably for the best. Hunk spent the past week practically organizing the entire wedding, and Keith probably should have stopped him, but now what’s done is done.

                  Hunk sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right, it’s just—“

                  Somebody shouts something in the background, and Hunk cuts off. “I have to go.” He pauses, like he’s going to say something else, and then Keith hears the line go dead with a _click_.

                  Keith takes his time eating, because once Lance is awake, the ball will be rolling, and he just wants to enjoy his time before everything goes to shit just a bit longer. Then, when it’s 7:45 and he can’t realistically put it off any longer, he reluctantly makes his way to Lance’s room.

                  Keith raps his knuckles loudly against Lance’s closed door. “Lance! Hunk said to wake up.”

                  Nothing. Faintly, Keith can hear the sound of snoring. He knocks louder, hard enough that the door shakes. “Lance! Jesus Christ…”

                  With a heavy sigh, Keith pushes the door open and steps into Lance’s room. “I swear to God, Lance, take some responsibility for once in your life…”

                  He trails off, cheeks heating. In front of him, Lance is sprawled across his bed, half-covered in sheets, his mouth hanging open. He lets out a loud snore and shifts a bit, and Keith jumps. Suddenly, coming in doesn’t seem like such a great idea.

                  With effort, Keith composes himself. “Lance.” He reaches out hesitantly and pokes Lance’s exposed shoulder. “Wake up.”

                  Lance doesn’t respond, and now frustration simmers in the bottom of Keith’s stomach. He grabs the edge of Lance’s comforter and yanks, hard. “Lance!”

                  Lance groans, pulling at his comforter, his face slowly forming an annoyed expression. “Five more minutes.”

                  And God, Keith wants to just let him sleep, because like this, without tension between them, he can almost pretend that they could be something _more_. But he can’t, and they won’t. So, he yanks the comforter again, taking the entire thing off of Lance’s bed. “Don’t be an ass.”

                  Lance groans, louder, and curls in on himself. “’S cold.”

                  Keith drops the comforter. “We have somewhere to be, in case you forgot.”

                  This makes Lance open his eyes. He glances at Keith, his eyes half-lidded with lingering sleep, and God, Keith is completely fucked. “Right.” He squints at Keith, a lazy smirk rising to his lips. “Were you watching me sleep? Creepy.”

                  Keith’s face flushes red. “No!”

                  “Hm, you were.” Lance stretches, all lean muscles and tan skin. “It’s okay. I know I’m easy on the eyes.”

                  “God, just _get up_ so we can get this over with.” Keith stomps out of Lance’s room. Lance’s laughter chases him down the stairs.

                  The minutes tick by, and the anxiety growing in the pit of Keith’s stomach snowballs until he’s nauseous with it. Lance shuffles downstairs, hair matted, and Keith has the fleeting annoyed thought that Lance can’t even be bothered to shower for the wedding. It’s ridiculous, and he tells himself so and forces himself to focus on anything else. Suits, ironed, because Hunk insisted they dress formally even though Keith really wants to show up in sweatpants, to reflect on the outside how he feels on the inside. Vows, printed from the Department of Marriage website—generic, short, just enough to fit the government requirements. Hair, tied back close to the nape of his neck.

                  When Keith steps outside close to 8:15, the winter chill immediately bites into his cheeks, bringing him back to reality with an unwelcome suddenness. Lance stumbles out behind him, his suit jacket slung lazily over one arm, and shuts the door loudly. “God, it’s fucking freezing,” he complains. “Let’s move somewhere warm, honey.”

                  A spark runs over Keith’s skin at _honey_ , and he masks it with a scowl. “Are you drunk?”

                  “What?” Lance frowns. “No. God. My _mamá_ would skin me alive. Why, are _you_ drunk?”

                  “God, I wish,” Keith mutters, starting down the snow-covered driveway to his car. He doesn’t quite miss the downward twitch of Lance’s mouth, though he wishes he had.

                  “Hey, wait a second.” Lance’s hand closes around Keith’s upper arm, and the shock it sends through Keith’s entire body makes him flinch hard enough that Lance lets go quickly. “Jesus. Okay. Look, about today…”

                  Keith sighs. “Lance, I don’t want to make this harder than it has to be—“

                  “Just—“ Lance interrupts, putting his hands up. “Just listen to me for a second, okay?” He swallows. “Um. So, you know that my family’s going to be there today and, um, they think that you and I are a bit friendlier than we actually are. So, can we pretend like we’re not fighting and like we’re happy?”

                  The childish part of Keith wants to stomp its foot and exclaim that no, how can he pretend to be happy when he’s getting married to someone who would rather be anywhere and with anyone else but him. The adult part takes control of Keith’s motor skills and allows him to purse his lips and say, “Fine.”

                  Keith turns to go again, and in a rush, Lance says, “Also, you have to kiss me.”

                  Keith stops so quickly he almost slips on the fresh snow and turns back. “What?” he croaks. It’s like all the air has rushed out of him all at once; he feels as if a slight breeze could blow him over.

                  Lance is staring fervently at the ground, his cheeks reddening. “If you don’t, my family will know that we’re not happy, and I can’t let that happen.”

                  “No.” Keith can’t do that. He can’t stand there in front of an audience and fucking _kiss_ Lance, because if he does, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to _stop_ kissing him. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it when they go right back to hating each other when he’s felt Lance’s lips, soft and pliant under his own. He can’t.

                  Lance’s eyes snap to Keith’s, surprise and anger mixing. “Are you serious? You can’t put aside your pride for _one moment_ and do this?”

                  “No, Lance. I can’t kiss you at our _wedding_ if it won’t mean anything.”

                  Lance looks like he’s been slapped. _Good_ , Keith tries to tell himself. Maybe he can remind himself what it felt like to not be in love with Lance McClain. Maybe, if he tells himself it doesn’t mean anything, it won’t.

                  “It doesn’t have to ‘ _mean anything_ ,’” Lance exclaims. “This isn’t a rom-com, Keith! This is me, trying not to let my family know that I’ve been matched incorrectly. Plus, come on. You can’t lie and say you’ve never thought about kissing me.”

                  This catches Keith completely off-guard. He was expecting Lance to yell, say something that would remind him that they are not and can never be compatible. Now, his mouth snaps shut, his neck flushing red. He works hard to keep his eyes off of Lance’s lips. “It’s not a lie. I haven’t.” It’s the biggest lie Keith has ever told.

                  “Uh huh.” Lance crosses his arms. “I bet you even _Pidge_ has thought about it.”

                  “Now _that’s_ a lie.”

                  The corners of Lance’s mouth lift, and Keith has the distinct feeling of whiplash. He tries to think of the last time they argued without someone dealing a fatal blow and comes up empty. He’s so wrapped up in the strangeness of it all that he barely feels it as Lance takes a few steps towards him and brushes his lips across Keith’s cheek.

                  “See?” Lance says as he passes. “It’s not that hard.”

                  Sensation comes back to Keith all at once; his cheek is burning, as if Lance’s mouth is still on it. He still has angry words on his lips, ready to be set loose, and it takes effort to swallow them. Distinctly, he has the sense that he’s been played, but he can’t muster up the words to protest it.

                  “Keith! I know I’m a lot to handle, but we’ll be late if you don’t get in the car,” Lance calls from the end of the driveway.

                  Keith manages to retort, “I just didn’t expect your lips to be so slimy,” and forces his feet to travel to the car.

                  Lance gasps dramatically. “Rude! I bet you have fish breath.”

                  Keith smirks and climbs into the car. “Guess you’ll never know.”

                  Lance slumps into the passenger side seat and blows out a breath. “Fine. I’ll make a deal with you, ‘kay? You kiss me today, and I’ll… do the dishes the entire time we’re living together.”

                  Keith can’t. He shouldn’t. He…

                  “Sounds like a deal.”

                  He’s going to kiss Lance McClain.

* * *

 

                  What the actual _fuck_ does Lance think he’s doing?

                  Maybe he _is_ drunk, because why the _fuck_ else did he seduce Keith into kissing him at the wedding and then proceed to fucking _kiss Keith’s cheek_?

                  He doesn’t even _need_ to kiss him at the wedding. He could easily attribute it to the fact that they didn’t feel it was necessary, or that it’s not required, or _something_. All it would take is a casual hand around Keith’s waist to convince his _mamá_ that they’re in love, no questions asked.

                  He’s been trying, all week, to cut his feelings for Keith out of him, like a tumor that will consume him if he lets it grow too long. He knows it should be easy. Keith’s been making it easy. He’s been distant, nothing but quick words and formalities at work and at home. He’s been out constantly—at the gym or whatever else Keith does for fun—so Lance hardly sees him.

                  It should be easy, but it’s not. Because every time he thinks he’s got it, that he’s finally over Keith, Keith does something and _bam_ , Lance is falling again. One small smile and Lance’s heart races.

                  God, what is he _doing_?

                  Because he’s holding the rings—cheap zinc, gold-coated, courtesy of the state of New York—and they’re walking into the church—government-owned, not even a church at all, just a church-shaped building—and _oh God, it’s happening_ , and Keith is there and he looks kissable and untouchable all at the same time and Lance’s heart won’t stop pounding.

                  He wishes he could rip it straight out of his chest, if it meant he didn’t have to feel every beat.

                  Hunk appears next to them almost instantaneously as soon as they enter the church, two cookies in each hand and a flush to his cheeks. “Thank _God_ , you two. We have less than an hour until the ceremony. You got the rings?”

                  Lance is more than happy to hand them over to Hunk. He reaches for a cookie, but Hunk snatches them away quickly. “Oh no, you don’t. I spend all last night baking them, so _I’m_ going to eat the extras.”

                  Lance pouts. “But Hunk, it’s my wedding day!”

                  Keith shifts uncomfortably next to Lance. Lance knows that Keith would much rather stand in a white-washed room, sign a paper, and then wait out the required month of matrimony. He would’ve jumped at the idea, but then he thought of his family and their expectant faces, and nausea drove away any lingering thoughts of a low-key wedding. So here Lance is, smiling and joking and pretending like he isn’t preparing to bond with Keith as long as they both shall live—or until their month is up, which will inevitably come first.

                  Hunk’s exasperated sigh brings Lance back to the present. “Lance, did you hear a word I just said?”

                  Lance grins sheepishly, and Hunk closes his eyes for a moment, as if collecting himself. “Okay. I know this is awkward for both of you, but let’s all just pretend like it’s not and try not to make the guests feel uncomfortable. Good?” He doesn’t give either of them time to say anything before continuing, “I have to finish cooking for the reception, so just—maybe practice your vows? I don’t know—you’re both adults. Just don’t argue, maybe?”

                  “Thanks, mom,” Lance says sarcastically, but not without fondness. Hunk huffs out a softly humored breath and exits the main hall, leaving Lance and Keith standing in increasingly awkward silence by the church doors. No one else has arrived yet, but Lance knows it’s only a matter of time. The thought of seeing his family leaves him with a strange mix of excitement and terror; it makes his heart pound double-time, which definitely isn’t healthy, given how fast it was beating initially.

                  With a sigh, Lance slumps down onto one of the pews and blows out a long breath. “Look,” he starts, but just as soon as he’s begun, he forgets what he wanted to say, so he trails off, letting silence seep into the space between them again.

                  After a moment, Keith sits next to Lance, leaving a few feet of space between them; Lance can still acutely feel his presence, like a tingle across the surface of his skin. Five minutes pass; it becomes clear that Keith plans to just sit here, in silence, until people arrive, and God, Lance can’t do that. The silence is eating him alive.

                  “I’m Cuban,” he blurts, too loud. It cuts sharply into the quiet, and Lance sees Keith twitch in surprise. “I was born in Varadero, but I moved to New York to go to college. So my family, they flew in from Cuba.”

                  Keith glances at Lance, an eyebrow raised. “Okay…?”

                  Lance shrugs. “You’re going to meet them in, like, ten minutes, so I figured you might want to know who you’re meeting.”

                  Keith’s quiet, so Lance continues, “I have two sisters, an older and a younger, and a younger brother. Helena’s the oldest—she lives in Florida now, working as a lawyer. Then me, and then Luís—he’s turning ten soon—and then Isabela. My dad and mom will be here too—Dante and Rosa—and my _abuela_ , I think, Josie. Um, they can be—loud, so maybe just be ready? I guess?”

                  Keith blinks a few times, the corners of his mouth twitching. Then, he smiles slightly, like he can’t quite hold it back, and says, “Loud compared to you? That must be something.”

                  Lance scowls in indignation. “I am _not_ loud! Just because you’re broody all the time, it doesn’t mean the rest of us are _loud_.”

                  Keith raises an eyebrow. “’Broody’?”

                  “Yeah! You know—“ Lance does a poor imitation of Keith’s ever-present scowl, pulling his eyebrows together comically and scrunching his mouth and nose. “Like that.”

                  “What—!” Keith scowls. “I do _not_ look like that.”

                  “You just did.”

                  Keith tries to compose his face. “Just because I don’t say everything that comes to mind, it doesn’t make me _broody_. It makes me a normal human being.”

                  “I’m sure if I asked everyone who’s ever known you, they would disagree.”

                  Keith crosses his arms. “Really? Try Shiro.”

                  As soon as the name _Shiro_ crosses Keith’s lips, his body tenses like a rabbit ready to flee, his jaw tightening. Lance isn’t really sure what to say—he doesn’t even know what happened between Keith and Shiro, much less how to fix it, even less sure if it’s his place to try and do so—but he’s saved from the effort of filling the silence when the doors to the church creak open, letting in a whirlwind of fat snowflakes and a shivering group of heavily-bundled figures.

                  “—don’t understand why it’s _so_ cold up here—“ a voice says in heavily accented Spanish, before the speaker catches sight of Lance and cuts off with an excited, “Lance!”

                  Suddenly, six pairs of arms of varying sizes are wrapping around Lance all at once, vying for priority, and Lance lets out a squeak of surprise. He catches a glimpse of his _mamá_ ’s face under a large wool hat, and his face breaks out into a wide grin. “ _Mamá_!” His arms wrap around a familiar plump body, and he squeezes tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

                  “Mm, and I’m so glad to see my favorite _hijo_.”

                  “ _Mooooom!”_ A pair of arms detaches from the cluster. “I thought _I_ was your favorite son!”

                  Lance’s mother chuckles, letting go of Lance so she can ruffle the hair on a short, chubby-faced boy. God, Luís has grown so much since Lance last saw him. “You are _both_ my favorite sons.”

                  “That’s not how it works,” Luís pouts.

                  Out of the corner of his eye, Lance sees Keith shift uncomfortably in his seat. With effort, Lance wriggles out of his family’s embrace and stands, brushing his hands down the front of his suit jacket nervously. “Um,” he starts, dragging a sheepish smile onto his face. “ _Mamá, papá_ , this is Keith.”

                  Keith stands as well, extending a hand. Lance can see the tension in the too-composed expression on Keith’s face. “Nice to meet you.”

                  Lance’s mother ignores Keith’s hand and wraps Keith in a tight hug. Keith’s eyes widen in surprise, and Lance is pretty sure he stops breathing—although that may just be from the bone-crushing hug his _mamá_ is famous for. “Welcome to the family, Keith,” Lance’s mother says warmly, and Lance may just have to see a doctor for all the stress his heart has endured in the last hour alone. Keith’s eyes meet Lance’s, and Lance prepares for burning rage, but it’s not there. Instead, there’s terror, and… something else, something Lance can’t quite place. It makes Lance’s stomach dance with butterflies, and he swallows sharply to get rid of the feeling. Not the time, not the place. He needs to focus.

                  “Okay, _mamá_ ,” Lance says light-heartedly, gently tugging on his mother’s upper arm until she releases Keith. “Don’t kill my fiancé before the wedding.”

                  His mother chuckles. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t hurt someone who meant so much to my Lance.”

                  Keith’s cheeks are slowly turning red, and Lance honestly doesn’t know if he’s breathing or not. “Well, it’s great to see you _mamá_ ,” Lance says hurriedly, grabbing Keith’s arm, “but there’s just a few minutes before the ceremony, and we’ve got—you know—things to do! Love you!” He half-guides, half-drags Keith out of the main room and into a small, adjacent room that looks like it was once some sort of conference room. Through the windows, fat snowflakes continue to flutter to the ground, coating the grass and trees with breathtaking crystals. It’s so beautiful, and Lance can’t help but feel that the universe is playing some cruel joke on him.

                  Keith shifts so that his arm slides from Lance’s grasp. It’s not a violent motion, and when Lance turns to face Keith, he’s surprised to see Keith’s eyes cast on the ground, one hand grasping his other arm in a half-hug. “Keith?” Lance says hesitantly, not entirely sure how to handle a Keith that isn’t fiery-eyed and aiming for the throat. “You okay, man?”

                  Keith swallows, refusing to meet Lance’s eyes. “Your family is… nice.”

                  This isn’t what Lance expected. He blinks, then smiles widely. “Really? You like them?”

                  Keith shrugs, looking up and out the window. “I guess. They… they really love you.”

                  “Yeah,” Lance sighs, glancing out the window again. “They do. And it seems like they really like you too.”

                  Keith’s face, which had been returning to normal, flushes red again. “What?”

                  “I mean, my _mamá_ generally likes everyone,” Lance shrugs, “so don’t let it go to your head.”

                  Keith glares at the ground. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll only be acquainted with them for a month, and then they’ll hate me when we get divorced.”

                  “Woah, relax.” Lance holds up his hands in a placating gesture. _Why is Keith so worked up over this?_ “Just—don’t worry about it, okay? I’m sure they won’t hate you.”

                  Keith huffs through his nose. “Sure.” He crosses his arms, the sullen, broody look returning to his face—but Lance swears there’s something else there, something darker and a bit sadder. He doesn’t understand. He thought Keith would be angry today, sure, especially having to keep up the ruse that he and Lance are perfectly happy and in love, but… sad?

                  Keith glances out the window again, almost expectantly, and then, suddenly, Lance understands.

                  “You’re adopted,” he blurts, and Keith whips his head around to glare at Lance. Okay, not the most tactful beginning, but Lance will be damned if today goes anything other than smoothly—for his family, and for his sanity.

                  “Thanks, Lance. I’d forgotten,” Keith bites out, his eyebrows folding inward and making his face crinkle in anger.

                  “No, nonono, that’s not what I meant.” Lance pinches the bridge of his nose. “I _meant_ , that I get why family is such a touchy subject for you. That’s all.”

                  “It’s not a touchy subject!” Keith turns away from Lance, but Lance can still see the tension in his shoulders, the way his body hunches slightly in a protective stance.

                  Lance knows he shouldn’t pry—knows he shouldn’t even _care_ enough to pry—but he can’t help but ask, “Is your family coming today?”

                  Keith pauses for a dangerously long moment. “No. Drop it, Lance.”

                  “Shiro?” Lance asks, softer.

                  Keith whips around, his eyes ablaze. “I said drop it!”

                  Lance takes a reflexive step back. “Okay, okay. Jesus.” He folds his arms and glares at Keith. “No need to take out your Shiro problems on me.”

                  “There are no ‘Shiro problems,’” Keith growls.

                  “Sure,” Lance says, unconvinced. “And I’m Batman.”

                  “Oh my _God_ , Lance, can’t you just shut up,” Keith snaps, turning and stalking toward the door. “Honestly, I don’t know why I even _agreed_ to kiss you.”

                  “Wait, wait, Keith!” Lance rushes after him, stopping him just before he’s about to open the door. “We had a deal!”

                  Keith glares at the hand holding his upper arm. “Let go of me, Lance.”

                  “Look. I know you don’t want to do this, and believe me, the feeling is mutual, but for my family, Keith?” Lance pouts his lip and widens his eyes. “Please?”

                  Keith’s quiet for too long. “Fine,” he says finally, his eyes casting away from Lance—but not before Lance can see that _something else_ again, making his heart thump wildly in his chest, like a wild horse released from its handlers. “For your family.” He slides out of Lance’s grip, opens the door, and disappears into the main room, leaving Lance standing alone, bewildered and a bit flustered.

                  He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand _Keith._ He’s an enigma, a man of so few emotions yet so many, an uncontrollable fire and a gust of freezing air, all wrapped into one. He’s fire, and Lance is ice. He’s red, and Lance is blue. He’s yin, and Lance is yang. They should be total opposites, always at odds—and they are. Or were. Now, Lance isn’t sure that fire and ice, red and blue, and yin and yang are actually all that different after all.

                  Somewhere outside, a bell chimes ten times, and a sharp knock comes on the door, startling Lance out of his thoughts. “Lance, are you in there?” Hunk calls, sounding slightly frazzled. “Um, we kind of need you. You know, for the wedding.”

                  “Be right out!” Lance brushes his hands down the front of his suit jacket again, more to calm his nerves than anything, and takes a deep breath.

                  He’s going to kiss Keith Kogane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a while since I've updated--college has been a bit busier than I anticipated, and I've been swamped with schoolwork, but with finals week almost done, I've got the time to update again! I feel a bit like Lance's mamá right now, since I'll be heading north to the cold and snow for holiday break. I hope you all have a great holiday season, for whichever holiday you celebrate :)


	9. Chapter 9

                  Keith stands, hands clasped, at the altar, fingers fidgeting nervously. Someone’s playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D on piano, and it’s beautiful. A drop of sweat trickles down the back of his neck, and he resists the urge to wipe it away. His eyes follow Lance as he takes step after agonizing step down the aisle, his mother gripping his upper arm tightly enough to wrinkle his suit. Keith wants to look away, but his eyes remain frozen, his vision tunneling until all he can see is Lance.

                  He’s going to kiss Lance McClain.

                  He blinks, and Lance is standing across from him. The piano is silent; the church is silent. Keith swears everyone can hear the pounding of his heart; it’s deafening in his ears.

                  Beside him, the officiant from the Department of Marriage begins speaking, but the words pass in and out of Keith’s ears without registering any meaning. Lance is staring at Keith’s hands, then his chest, then his feet. Keith can’t stop looking at Lance’s eyes.

                  Then, Lance is speaking, and Keith realizes with a start that they’ve already reached the vows. They’re generic and short, printed from the Department of Marriage’s website, but the words “love and protect” coming from Lance’s lips, his eyes flicking back and forth from the paper in his hands to somewhere just below Keith’s face, make Keith’s stomach twist into knots. He slides his own paper from the inside pocket of his suit and stumbles through his own vows, hoping that Lance can’t hear the tremble in his voice. It all feels like some fever dream, like Keith will wake suddenly in a cold sweat and realize that his 25th birthday never happened and that he’s hallucinated the entire thing. His fingernails dig into his palms as he finishes his vows; the stinging pain brings him closer to reality, sound bleeding back in until he can hear the officiant ask for the rings.

                  Hunk is standing at Lance’s side—his best man, Keith assumes—and he wordlessly passes the ring to Lance. Then, cool metal presses into Keith’s palm, and Shiro’s voice says softly in his ear, “I wasn’t going to leave you alone for this, Keith.”

                  Keith swallows, his fingers closing over the ring and brushing Shiro’s as they retreat. He nods, almost imperceptibly, but Shiro must notice, because he breathes a small sigh of relief before stepping back.

                  “Lance, you may present Keith with your ring,” the officiant says. Keith focuses his attention back on Lance; his face is flat, controlled, but Keith can see a terror in his eyes as he reaches, hesitantly, for Keith’s hand. There’s a sharp contrast between pale ivory and darker white where Keith’s gloves normally sit; he wishes that he hadn’t left them behind when Lance’s fingers gently raise his hand from his side, every touch sending sparks racing over his exposed skin. Lance slides the ring onto Keith’s finger; the metal is cold, and Keith blames that for the shiver that races through him. Lance must feel it, because he retracts his hand quickly, his lips pursing and eyes staring at the ground. Keith tries to ignore the sharp pang of hurt that briefly overtakes him; after all, he knows how Lance feels. This is no surprise.

                  “Keith, you may present Lance with your ring.”

                  Jaw tight, Keith quickly takes Lance’s hand, like ripping off a bandage, and slides the ring onto his finger. He drops Lance’s hand just as quickly, trying to forget how warm it was, how smooth Lance’s skin is.

                  The officiant smiles warmly. “Lance Macerio McClain, do you take Keith Kogane to be your lawfully wedded husband, to cherish in love and in friendship, in strength and in weakness, in success and in disappointment, to care for him faithfully, today, tomorrow, and for as long as the two of you shall live?”

                  And finally, _finally_ , Lance meets Keith’s eyes—long enough for Keith to see something swimming in them, something… different. He’s never been good at emotions, though, so when Lance says, “I do,” and looks away, Keith still can’t place exactly what Lance is feeling. He’s distracted from trying to decipher Lance’s emotions when the officiant turns to him and says, “Keith, do you take Lance to be your lawfully wedded husband, to cherish in love and in friendship, in strength and in weakness, in success and in disappointment, to care for him faithfully, today, tomorrow, and for as long as the two of you shall live?”

                  Keith doesn’t want to meet Lance’s eyes again, so he stares at Lance’s hands as he says, his throat tight, “I do.”

                  “Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss your groom.”

                  Keith’s eyes snap to Lance’s face, almost against his will. Oh, God, it’s happening. Keith’s been able to distract himself from the reality of this moment with everything else—the rings, Lance’s hands, Shiro—but now Lance is stepping forward, his lips parting slightly—oh, God, his lips—and Keith can’t do this. He can’t kiss Lance McClain—not here, not now, not ever.

                  He meets Lance’s eyes, his body shifting unconsciously away from Lance. His lips form a silent _no_ , his head shaking so subtly he’s sure only Lance notices, and Lance’s eyes narrow. Keith’s one millisecond away from sprinting down the stairs, out the doors, and into the blizzard outside, but then Lance grabs the sides of his neck and pulls.

                  “Asshole,” Lance growls under his breath, and then his lips are on Keith’s, and Keith loses himself. Everything around him dissolves, and all he can feel is the warmth of Lance’s mouth and Lance’s hands, wrapped around his neck, Lance’s fingers brushing against his hairline. The last of Keith’s walls crumble and he’s falling, Lance’s mouth the only anchor keeping him from being lost in the abyss. His hands move from his side to grasp Lance’s upper arms, and Keith can feel Lance’s surprise on his mouth—a small exhalation. It drives Keith insane.

                  He’s kissing Lance McClain. And he never wants to stop.

                  Then, the warmth is gone—on his neck, his mouth—and Keith opens his eyes to see Lance step away, his arms slipping out of Keith’s grip easily. Keith’s hands fall back to his sides, like all the energy has been sucked out of him. He feels fried, like he wasn’t careful enough during a wiring job and accidentally got electrocuted. Through the fog in his mind, he hears the officiant say, “It’s my great honor and privilege to be the first to present to you Mr. and Mr. Kogane-McClain!”

                  Lance’s hand slipping into his brings Keith’s world back into focus. “Come on,” Lance says quietly, his voice flat and emotionless. He drags Keith the first few steps from the altar before Keith recollects his wits and notices his surroundings—people surrounding him, standing and clapping, Allura and Coran smiling, Pidge and Hunk and Shiro wide-eyed with surprise and trying to cover it with too-large grins. They’re almost out of the room before Keith glances at Lance; his face is plastered with a big smile that falls as soon as they’re through the wooden double doors. He drops Keith’s hand and runs a hand through his hair, and if Keith didn’t know any better, he would think that Lance was… flustered.

                  “Keith,” Lance begins, turning to face Keith, but before he can say anything more, the wooden doors fly open and Lance’s family barrels through, smothering Lance with hugs and kisses and exclamations of joy. The Voltron team trails behind them, Allura and Coran leading the group. It surprises Keith when Allura wraps him in a tight hug, her impossibly white hair tickling his cheek.

                  “I know this isn’t the ideal situation for you, Keith, but I truly believe this will all work itself out,” Allura says, her breath tickling his ear. “Remember, marriage is just a piece of paper. It means what you want it to mean.”

                  Keith surprises himself when he wraps his arms around Allura’s back and squeezes. “Thank you,” he says quietly, releasing Allura and stepping back with a small smile.

                  Behind Allura, Coran sniffles and wipes at the corner of his eye. “What a beautiful ceremony! Such simplicity, yet such honesty! And Keith, really throwing in a bit of unpredictability with that kiss at the end—reminds me of my own wedding.”

                  “Yeah,” Pidge says, fidgeting with their glasses. “Unpredictable is one word for it.”

                  Keith’s hands clench into fists. “I don’t want to talk about that. Let’s just go home.”

                  “Oh, no,” Hunk interjects, pointing an accusatory finger at Keith. “I did _not_ spend all of last night and this morning cooking and baking just so that you could _go home_ and not eat _any_ of it. You’re going to your own reception.”

                  “Oo, did you make garlic knots?” Lance slides up next to Hunk, grinning. He looks much more animated than the Lance Keith walked out with, and Keith tries not to meet his eyes. “You know they’re my favorite.”

                  Hunk rolls his eyes. “Of course. Garlic knots, cheese fondue, lasagna—who do you think I am, Lance?”

                  “Only the best best friend in the entire multiverse!” Lance grins, and it’s so _genuine_ , not mocking or spiteful, that Keith feels his face heat up just looking at it.

                  “Well,” Coran says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get to it, then! I’m as hungry as a Klamüirl in the spring!”

                  Hunk glances at Pidge, who raises an eyebrow at Allura. She just shrugs, a fond smile on her lips as they follow Coran through the lobby and into the banquet hall. A wall of aromas hits Keith as he enters the room—a long, high-ceilinged space that spans the entire length of the building, with stained glass windows caked with snow—and his stomach growls unwittingly.

                  “Hmm, someone’s hungry,” Lance comments, stopping next to Keith as he stares at the excessively large array of food spanning the length of the room. There’s a moment of silence; Keith can feel the tension, unspoken and heavy, building between them. Lance clears his throat; Keith can see him shift out of the corner of his eye, one hand sliding out of his pants pocket to grab the other arm. “Keith… about the ceremony—“

                  “Lance!” his mother calls, waving from across the room. “Come eat with us, _mijo_. Keith, _cariño_ , you too.”

                  “Coming, _mamá_!” Lance glances at Keith again, his lips parting slightly like he wants to say something; then, his face smooths over, tension replaced by an easy confidence than can only be faked. “Well, you heard her. Come on, _cariño_.”

                  Keith feels a deep blush creep up his neck. _Honey._ Lance just called him _honey_ —in Spanish, a language Keith is practically fluent in after growing up just shy of the Mexican border—and he didn’t even _flinch_ , acted like it meant _nothing_. Like… like their kiss meant nothing.

                  It didn’t mean nothing to Keith.

                  He kissed Lance McClain. And—no, he can’t, he shouldn’t…

                  He wants to do it again.

* * *

 

                  _Holy shit. I kissed Keith Kogane._

                  Lance laughs as Hunk dribbles cheese fondue down the front of his suit. “Dude, you’re supposed to eat it, not wear it.”

                  _Like,_ actually _kissed him._

                  “Very funny, Lance. Just because you got married today doesn’t mean you have permission to make fun of me.”

                  “Ah, don’t get mad, Hunk, baby!”

                  _And I liked it. I liked it a lot._

                  Hunk scrubs furiously at his suit. “Well, at least it tastes good. Too bad you’ll never know, Keith.”

                  “Ha, ha,” Keith says dryly, biting into a garlic knot. Lance can’t stop staring at his lips.

                  _And I want to do it again._

                  Lance stands, trying not to seem hurried. “Well, nature calls. Don’t eat all the cake while I’m gone.”

                  “No promises,” Pidge says, starting on their fifth piece.

                  Lance makes his way out of the banquet hall and steps into the bathroom. He stands in front of the sink and splashes his face with water, trying to focus himself. _Come on, Lance. You saw Keith. He was ready to run away. There’s no point in wanting another kiss, because it’s never going to happen. He doesn’t…_

                  _He doesn’t love me._

                  Lance shouldn’t feel so hurt at the thought—after all, it’s not like he was ever delusional enough to think that Keith actually _liked_ him, much less _loved_ him. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less every time he’s reminded that this is just one big inconvenience for Keith—that _he’s_ just one big inconvenience.

                  “Lance?”

                  Lance looks away from the sink to see his father standing in the doorway, his eyebrows knit with concern. “Hey, _papá._ ”

                  “Everything okay? You’re not at the reception.”

                  Lance stands up straight, stretching his arms in front of him and trying to give off an air of nonchalance. “Yup, it’s all good! I was just using the restroom.”

                  He moves to brush past his father, but a firm hand on his shoulder stops him before he can get through. “Lance. What’s wrong?”

                  “Wrong?” Lance laughs lightly; it sounds a bit forced, even to him. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s my wedding day!”

                  “Hmm. That’s what your _mamá_ said too, but I think she has a tendency to be a bit too optimistic sometimes.” His father’s eyes are kind, his hand reassuring on Lance’s shoulder. “Don’t feel like you have to hide anything from us, _mijo_.”

                  Lance holds his smile for a moment longer; then, like a dam breaking, he lets it slip from his face, his eyes dropping to the floor. “It… it’s not all a lie, _papá._ I promise, I wouldn’t lie to you. It’s just…Keith and I, we…”

                  “Lance,” his father interrupts, retracting his hand from Lance’s shoulder. “I think I understand. So I need you to understand as well. Your _mamá_ and I were not matched, but I know many couples—happy couples—who were. Love is a flower, and it does not bloom so easily. I think you should give it time.”

                  Bitterly, Lance says, “Keith doesn’t love me. He never will. We’re too different.”

                  “Maybe,” Lance’s father muses, a faint smile on his lips. “But today, when you kissed him, you looked like two _jóvenes amantes incómodos_.”

                  Lance’s face heats up. _Awkward young lovers…?_ “ _Papá_!” he protests, embarrassed. “I… I should get back to the reception.”  

                  He slips through the doorway, his father’s chuckles echoing through the hallway and following him into the banquet hall. Hoping that his face isn’t still red, Lance grabs a slice of cake and sits down heavily in his chair, taking a sullen bite.

                  _Awkward young lovers. Like hell._ Lance glances at Keith out of the corner of his eye; he’s staring intently at a cheese-fondue-covered bread cube. Then, in one motion, he picks it up with a toothpick and pops it in his mouth.

                  “RIP Keith,” Pidge says casually, finishing off their fifth—sixth?—piece of cake.

                  Lance points an accusatory finger at Keith. “You told me you were lactose intolerant!”

                  Keith glares at Lance. “I am.”

                  “You just ate cheese!”

                  “Actually,” Hunk says, “it’s vegan cheese fondue. I totally forgot I made a special batch for Keith. I used nutritional yeast and vegan cheese, so there’s no lactose.”

                  Lance gapes at Hunk. “What? You can _do_ that? I want to try! Keith, give me some.”

                  “Go get your own.”

                  “But I’m your husband.”

                  “And I’m not your servant. You have legs.”

                  “Keeeith!”

                  “No!”

                  One hour later, when Keith and Lance are driving home to change before going out for drinks, Keith glances over to see Lance, arms crossed and pouting in the passenger seat. “Are you still upset that I wouldn’t get you any fondue?” Keith asks, irritated.

                  “No,” Lance says—which technically isn’t true, because Keith had an _entire plate_ and he couldn’t share?—but… “I was just thinking about something my _papá_ said.”

                  “Hmm.” Keith doesn’t say anything else the entire drive home, which both relieves Lance and sets him on edge. It feels like, with each passing moment, the tension between them grows and grows, becoming more and more unbearable. Lance wants to break the tension—establish that it was just a one-time kiss of necessity, even if he wishes it weren’t, so they don’t spend the next month stepping on eggshells around each other—but he can’t stop thinking about what his _papá_ said. He knows it’s stupid—knows that Keith doesn’t love him and _definitely_ didn’t want to kiss him—but a small part of him, a faint voice in the back of his head, won’t stop entertaining the idea that maybe—just maybe—his father is right. It’s irrational, but Lance can’t shake it. He can’t say anything to Keith until he’s absolutely sure he won’t say something he’ll regret.

                  He kissed Keith Kogane. And—no, he can’t, he shouldn’t…

                  He wants to do it again.

* * *

 

                  Shiro’s the designated driver this time, which is like a gift from God, because that means Keith can drink and hopefully forget about everything—Shiro, Lance, the kiss…

                  _Oh, God, the kiss._

                  Keith hails the bartender. “Whisky on the rocks please. Make it a double.”

                  “And a long island iced tea for me,” Lance says with a grin, sliding onto the barstool next to Keith.

                  As the bartender turns to make their drinks, Hunk and Pidge take the barstools on the other side of Keith, beers in hand. “Man, what a day,” Hunk says, taking a long drink of his beer. “I should have gone to culinary school instead of studying engineering.”

                  “But then you never would have moved to New York with me!” Lance says, taking a sip of his drink as the bartender slides it in front of him. “And what kind of life would that have been?”

                  “A quiet one,” Keith says dryly, downing half his drink in one go and ignoring the squeak of protest from Lance.

                  “Cheers to that,” Pidge agrees, toasting with their glass before draining the rest of it. “Another beer, please. Same kind.”

                  “Take it easy, guys,” Shiro says, coming up to stand behind Hunk and Keith. Keith’s acutely aware of his presence; after what happened at the wedding, he’s decided to apologize, but he still has to convince the part of himself that stubbornly refuses to crawl back to Shiro with his problems.

                  “Aw, come on, Shiro,” Lance complains. “It’s Saturday. There’s no work tomorrow.”

                  “I know. But I’m not keen on driving home a carful of noisy, drunk twenty-somethings.”

                  “Oh, come on dad,” Lance jokes. “Lighten up.”

                  Shiro sighs wearily. “Just keep it classy, okay?”

                  “Hmm,” Keith says casually, taking a sip of his drink. “That’s not what you thought last time we went out drinking. I recall a certain someone singing karaoke—“

                  “Okay, okay, truce,” Shiro says, laughing. “I’ll be at a table.”

                  Keith goes through four more drinks before he can look at Lance without thinking about the kiss. An additional two have him sitting next to Lance at a booth, their thighs pressed together, playing a sloppy game of poker with Hunk and Pidge that Pidge is completely dominating. Eventually, when Pidge has collected $500 and an assorted collection of gums and candies that Lance found in his pockets, they put the cards away and bounce crazy, drunken ideas for the lions off each other—or, more specifically, off Pidge, since they’re the soberest. Hunk suggests a space-time compressor to make the inside bigger than the outside, to which Pidge nods solemnly and says, “Hunk, you’re absolutely trashed.” Lance spends ten minutes elaborately describing a system where the lions can 3-D print _anything_ —“Like food, or girls!” Pidge: “Lance, you’re married. To a guy.” Lance: “Keith doesn’t mind. Right, babe?” Keith: “Mm, nope. Not your babe.”—that Pidge finally cuts off with a snort and a, “You wish, Lance.” Keith tries to think of something smart or cool, but his brain is fuzzy, so all he can come up with is, “Weapons that change depending on who holds them.”

                  “Hmm,” Pidge muses, tapping their fingers on the table. “You might be on to something.” They wave at the bartender. “Another round of shots, please! Tequila, with salt and lime.”

                  “Oo, and the weapons turn into a key thing that fits into a slot in the lions that activates a superpower!” Hunk says, pressing his hands to the table—in excitement or to keep himself from toppling over, Keith isn’t sure. “A key-weapon! Ha, I would want a gun! A big one!”

                  “You know me, Hunk,” Lance slurs, leaning all the way across the table to look Hunk in the eyes. “I’m the sharpshooter. First place, laser tag, every time. Gotta watch out, or Lancey Lance will shoot you!”

                  Keith blows a loud breath through his lips. “Please. I could beat you in laser tag _any_ day.”

                  Lance raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, hot stuff?”

                  “Yeah.”

                  “Oh boy,” Pidge says.

                  “Right now—you, me, Vrepit Sa Laser Tag. They’re open 24 hours on the weekend,” Lance says, his mouth twisting into a cocky smile. “Unless you’re scared?”

                  Something fiery hot burns within Keith, and it’s not just the alcohol. “You’re on, McClain.”

                  “Um, don’t you mean Koga—“ Hunk starts, but Pidge interrupts.

                 “You two want to play _laser tag_? Drunk? You’re crazy.” Pidge considers it for a moment. “Count us in.”

                  Keith ignores them, staring at Lance like his life depends on it. The alcohol blurs his vision, makes the world spin a bit, but Lance’s face is perfectly discernable, his smug grin taunting. Keith wants to kiss it.

                  “Shiro!” Keith stands, totters a bit, and stumbles over to where Shiro is sitting, sipping a Coke and reading a novel while subtly keeping an eye on them. “We need a ride to Vrepit Sa Laser Tag.”

                  “Like hell,” Shiro says, not taking his eyes off his book. “You’re drunk.”

                  “Okay, we’ll walk.” Keith turns, grabs Lance’s forearm, and heads for the door. “Pay our tab, will you, Shiro? Thanks.”

                  “Hold on! Where do you think you’re going?”

                  “Bye, Shiroooo!” Lance coos, waving as Keith pulls him through the door. As the bitter night air hits Keith’s face like a slap, he hears Shiro curse.

                  “Wait, Keith! Just- hold on a second, okay? Tab, please.”

                  Keith stops at Shiro’s Ford Escape, Lance stumbling next to him and leaning heavily against the car. Lance’s fingers twitch against Keith’s, and Keith realizes that his hand has slid down Lance’s arm, so their hands are clasped, fingers intertwined. Keith considers letting go; then, Lance’s hand tightens around Keith’s, and Keith’s heart skips a beat. Suddenly, kissing Lance—right here, right now—seems like a great idea.

                  “Lance,” Keith says, his brain a bit disconnected from his mouth. He surprises himself a bit when he continues, “do you remember flirting with me?”

                  “Hmm?” Lance says sleepily, his hand warm in Keith’s. “Which time?”

                  Those words shouldn’t make Keith’s heart flutter as much as they do. “The… the last time we went out drinking.”

                  Lance’s face scrunches in concentration. “Keeeith, too much thinking. I don’t remember.”

                  “Well, you did. You said…” Keith thinks for a moment, fighting his sluggish brain. “Did it hurt, when you fell from heaven?”

                  “Mm, it did.” Lance grins at Keith. “Well, you are pretty. Like an angel.” He frowns. “A scary angel.”

                  If Keith had anything rational left in his brain, it escapes him. “You think I’m pretty?”

                  Lance blinks at Keith, his lips parting slightly. “Beautiful,” he sighs, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m tired.”

                  Keith pokes Lance’s shoulder. “If you fall asleep before laser tag, I’ll never forgive you.”

                  Lance’s eyes open reluctantly. He stares at Keith through half-lidded eyes, and Keith can’t take it anymore. He steps closer to Lance, leans in—

                  “I swear to God, you two, I’m never being the designated driver again,” Shiro complains, and Keith steps back like Lance has burned him. The sudden motion makes him dizzy, and he stumbles back a few steps, his hand slipping out of Lance’s. “You owe me for your drinks, got it?”

                  “Yessir,” Lance says, giving Shiro a sloppy salute. He seems unfazed by the whole thing, which for some reason makes Keith even more unbalanced. He leans against Shiro’s car, trying to regain his equilibrium.

                  “Hey, hot shot,” Pidge says, poking Keith’s shoulder. “Get in the car. Laser tag was your dumb idea, after all.”

                  Wordlessly, Keith climbs into Shiro’s car. The drive to the laser tag place is short and cramped; Keith is pressed against Lance’s side, and he can feel every point of contact like a spark against his skin. Lance laughs at something Hunk says, his hand wrapping around Keith’s shoulders and pulling him closer to him, and Keith just might die. It takes all of his strength to keep himself from trying to kiss Lance again—but, God, he wants to, so badly.

                  The staff at Vrepit Sa Laser Tag barely raise an eyebrow at their drunk, rowdy group. Shiro pays for three rounds of laser tag, and since they’re the only ones there, they sit through the brief safety presentation before grabbing vests. Lance snaps his blue-lit vest into place, and Keith fumbles a bit with the clips on his red-lit vest before Shiro, wearing a similar red-lit vest, wearily helps.

                  “Hey!” Lance exclaims, glancing between himself and Hunk—wearing blue—and then waving his laser gun at Keith, Shiro, and Pidge—wearing red. “That’s not fair! You have an extra person!”

                  “Actually,” a familiar voice says, “I think it’s even.”

                  Keith must be _really_ drunk, because it takes him ten seconds before he finally locates Allura, standing at the end of the vest room with a blue-lit vest on, gun in hand. In the lighting, she looks like a warrior princess, simultaneously thousands of years old and impossibly young. “Allura…?”

                  “I called her. We needed another adult around here.”

                  “We’re adults! I’m an adult!” Lance protests, waving his gun like it’s supposed to prove his point.

                  “Uh huh,” Shiro says, unconvinced. “Anyway, now we have even teams.”

                  The laser tag worker—Ezor, according to her nametag—pops her gum and uncrosses her arms. “Great. Are you ready now?”

                  Lance smirks at Keith, raising his gun into a ready position. “Ready to win!”

                  “Yeah? We’ll see about that!” Keith raises his gun, focusing all of his energy on steadying his feet. Behind him, Hunk hiccups.

                  Ezor flips a switch, and the doors to the laser tag arena swing open. Lance is the first one out, running impossibly fast for someone who’s had at least seven drinks. “No running!” Ezor calls after him, but she has a small smirk on her face, so Keith charges in right after Lance, aiming immediately for the high ground. He doesn’t see Lance anywhere, so he creeps along, low to the ground, staying behind the walls and peering around corners. He tags Hunk almost immediately, and Hunk grumbles under his breath as he stumbles back to the blue base to recharge, leaning against the walls for support. Allura is a bit harder—she fires at Keith a few times, clipping him once and sending him back to his base to recharge. Keith’s martial arts reflexes aren’t as stifled as he would have thought by the alcohol, but he finds it hard to concentrate on his next target, and his footing is much less sure than he would prefer. That’s why, when he finally finds Lance, Lance gets the jump on him.

                  The shot comes from above, and the lights on Keith’s vest die. He looks down in surprise, then up, where Lance is perched between two walls, his gun aiming through the space in between. “Ha!” Lance exclaims. “Who’s the laser tag champion now?”

                  Sullenly, Keith returns to his base to recharge. He doesn’t manage to get a shot on Lance for the rest of the game, but he shoots Hunk enough times to put his team on top at the end.

                  “No fair!” Lance complains, pointing at the score board. “I totally shot you guys more than you shot me!”

                  “Sorry, Lance,” Hunk says sheepishly. He’s lying on the ground, practically asleep. “I’m just—s’tired.”

                  Shiro glances at Allura. “Maybe we should skip the last two games and get you guys home—“

                  “No!” Lance and Keith exclaim simultaneously. “Best two out of three wins,” Lance says, crossing his arms and staring intently at Keith.

                  “You’re on,” Keith says, matching Lance’s stance. _I just have to get one shot_.

                  The next game, Shiro and Allura switch teams. It wouldn’t make much of a difference, except Shiro keeps managing to land shots on Keith and sends him back to the base for recharging so much that Keith doesn’t have an opportunity to look for Lance. He’s so busy trying to avoid Shiro that he hardly tags anyone, bringing the blue team out on top in the end. Lance’s celebration is loud and obnoxious, and it feeds the fire raging within Keith. _One shot. That’s all I need._

                  The teams for the last game are the same as the first game. The exercise plus the two water bottles Shiro practically force-fed him after the last game have made Keith marginally soberer, enough to temporarily sharpen his focus. He’s careful to clear the path ahead of him, eliminating Hunk and Allura before they can tag him. He returns to the spot where Lance was before, this time from behind, but Lance isn’t there. Cursing, Keith spins, gun in hand—and the lights on his vest sputter out.

                  “Gotcha again, samuri!” Lance cackles, standing up from his crouched position behind a barricade a few paces away from Keith. He sways a bit before regaining his balance. “Admit it—I’m the sharpshooter in team Voltron.”

                  Keith lets his gun fall to his side, his brain too muddied to register anything other than defeat and dull frustration. “Fine. You’re the sharpshooter.”

                  “I didn’t heeaar youuuuu…”

                  “You’re the sharpshooter!” Keith sits heavily, his gun clacking on the floor. “Ugh, I… I need another drink.”

                  “Oh, no you don’t,” Shiro says, coming up beside Keith. “Game’s over, guys. Time to go home.”

                  Keith tells his legs to stand up, but they don’t cooperate. He’s so tired, all of a sudden, like the fire, the energy, has been completely sucked out of him. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbles.

                  Two hands—one warm and pliant, one cool and firm—grab him underneath his arms and lift, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s go, Keith.”

                  “Mm, okay.” Keith lets Shiro guide him out of the arena, out of his vest, and into the car, his brain a muddle of white noise and cotton. Without the adrenaline of the laser tag, the alcohol is draining Keith, dragging him down into the comfort of unconsciousness…

                  “Hey.” A hand shakes Keith’s shoulder, startling him awake. “We’re home, honey.”

                  Keith blinks at Lance, then at the empty car, Shiro the only one remaining. “Home?”

                  “Yeah!” Lance gasps, looking at Shiro. “He didn’t forget, did he?” Lance shakes Keith a bit, knocking his head back and forth. “Keith. We live together. Today, we got married. Hey, Keeeiiithhh—“

                  “I remember!” Keith says, too loud. “Let’s go… have another drink…”

                  “Keith, no!” Shiro points a finger at Lance. “Lance, do _not_ let him have anything more to drink. Do I have to come in with you guys?”

                  “Nope, we’re great!” Lance chirps, dragging Keith out of the car. “Thanks, dad!”

                  “God help me,” Shiro says dryly. Lance shuts the door, and after a short pause, Shiro pulls away from the curb. Lance’s hand is still on Keith’s upper arm, but Keith is too tired to shake him off. They go inside the house like that—Lance attached to Keith, his hand sliding closer and closer to Keith’s hand—and Lance fumbles blindly for the light switch for a few moments before giving up, stumbling through the dark with Keith in tow until they reach the kitchen. There, Lance pours two glasses of water and manages to give Keith one without spilling it everywhere; Keith downs it in one go.

                  As Keith moves to go upstairs—he’s battling exhaustion, and he wants nothing more than to collapse in bed—Lance says suddenly, “Keith, were you going to kiss me?”

                  Keith almost trips over the first step, bracing himself on the handrail just in time. “What?” he says, suddenly much more awake.

                  “Tonight, by Shiro’s car. Were you going to kiss me?”

                  Keith thinks back. “You… you said I was pretty.”

                  “Beautiful.”

                  Keith turns to face Lance. He’s got a blissful expression on his face—the kind that he had when he was talking about his family, or when he first woke up that morning. “I said you were beautiful, actually. Get your facts straight, Kogane.”

                  Keith can’t breathe. “What… what if I said I was?”

                  “Hmm? You were what? Beautiful?”

                  “No.” Keith feels like he’s walking a tightrope, like any moment now he’ll misstep and tumble off into nothingness. “What if I said I _was_ going to kiss you?”

                  Lance is quiet—too long. Keith takes a step back, then another, until his heels hit the stairs. “Anyway, it’s late—I better go to sleep—“

                  “You…” Lance says slowly, like his brain is finally catching up. His eyes meet Keith’s, and underneath the bliss and the fog, Keith can see that _something_ , that something different that he saw during the wedding. Then, Lance is stepping closer, his hand reaching for Keith’s face, and Keith’s mind goes blank. “What if I said,” Lance whispers, his hand hovering just shy of Keith’s cheek, like he’s scared to touch him, “that I would like it if you kissed me?”

                  And that’s really all the encouragement Keith needs. He steps into Lance’s embrace, his lips finding Lance’s, his hands reaching for Lance’s face to steady himself. He feels Lance’s gasp of surprise on his mouth and radiating through his body; when Lance brings his hands behind Keith’s head, brushing his fingers through Keith’s hair, it’s like touching a live wire. Keith stumbles back a few steps, his back knocking against the wall, and Lance presses against him, his head tilting slightly, deepening the kiss. When his tongue brushes against Keith’s, it brings with it the sharp bite of alcohol; it’s intoxicating, in more ways than one.

                  “Keith,” Lance breathes, the air tickling Keith’s lips. “I… I think I…”

                  Keith pulls back slightly, enough to see Lance’s eyes slipping closed. “Lance?”

                  “Mmm. Don’t wanna stop, but… s’tired. G’night.” Lance slumps against Keith; Keith catches him just in time.

                  “Lance. Lance, wake up.” _I don’t want to stop kissing you either._ Keith shakes Lance a bit; he groans, mumbles something incoherent, and wraps his arms around Keith. “Lance!”

                  Lance eyes flutter, but he doesn’t respond. With a frustrated groan, Keith manages to drag Lance onto the living room couch. The adrenaline of the kiss has worn off already, leaving Keith even more exhausted than before. He haphazardly drapes a blanket over Lance, and he’s about to make the trip upstairs to his bed when a hand wraps loosely around his wrist.

                  “Don’t go,” Lance mumbles, and Keith’s heart breaks.

                  “Okay,” he says softly, sitting back down. “I won’t.”

                  “Mm,” Lance hums, his mouth turning up in a small smile. Within moments, the smile fades, and Lance’s face goes slack with sleep.

                  Keith slides his wrist easily out of Lance’s grip and lies down on the floor. It’s cold and hard, but he still slides easily into unconsciousness.

                  He kissed Lance McClain.

                  And Lance kissed him back.


	10. Chapter 10

                  When Lance wakes the next morning, he registers three things in quick succession.

                  One: his head feels like it’s been kicked around in a game of soccer, then stuffed with cotton and reattached to his shoulders.

                  Two: he’s lying on the living room floor, a blanket tangled around his abdomen.

                  Three: he’s sprawled halfway across Keith.

                  _Holy shit_.

                  Carefully, Lance moves the upper half of his body off Keith’s stomach. He freezes when Keith’s head turns, his body shifting to one side so he’s facing Lance. One of Keith’s hands brushes Lance’s, and Lance flinches back like he’s been burned.

                  _What… what happened?_

                  Lance sits up and scrubs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t feel nauseous yet, thank God. Maybe he drank less than last time? No, he distinctly remembers the last round of shots Pidge ordered them, putting him over last time’s drink count… probably. No, definitely. But… they did play laser tag before going home, so—

                  Lance freezes, memories from last night hitting him like slaps in the face.

                  _“You think I’m pretty?” “Beautiful.”_

_“Gotcha again, samuri!”_

_“We’re home, honey.”_

_“Keith, were you going to kiss me? Tonight, by Shiro’s car. Were you going to kiss me?”_

_“What if I said I_ was _going to kiss you?”_

_“What if I said that I would like it if you kissed me?”_

_“Don’t go.”_

                  “Oh my God,” Lance breathes, glancing down at Keith, almost against his will. His face is softer when he sleeps, the angry lines that usually reside between his eyebrows smoothed, his lips slightly parted.

He kissed Keith Kogane _._

                  And Keith kissed him back.

                  Lance stands so quickly he almost wakes Keith; Keith groans softly in his sleep, curling slightly to occupy the space Lance vacated. The blanket falls off as Lance practically sprints upstairs, strips quickly, and steps into the shower. He turns the water on, cold first to make sure he’s actually awake and not in some sort of hyper-realistic dreamscape, then warmer, his mind racing.

                  This doesn’t make any sense. _Keith_ was the one who didn’t want to kiss him during the ceremony. _Keith_ was the one who almost ran out of their wedding, just because he would have to kiss Lance. _Keith_ was the one who made it so very, very clear that he didn’t like, love, or even _tolerate_ Lance, and that getting married to him was literally the worst thing he could possibly imagine. They fight, or they exist in an uncomfortable truce that only lasts as long as the fuse on Keith’s temper is. They don’t _kiss_.

                  Lance hugs his arms close to himself, letting the water beat against his back and his scalp. Maybe… maybe Keith didn’t _mean_ to kiss him. He said he was going to, at Shiro’s car, and then he did, at their house, but both of them had a lot to drink, so… maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe, in the haze of alcohol and emotion, it didn’t matter what Keith felt about Lance—just that he was there, a convenient pretty face, the line between hate and love blurring until Keith just… kissed him.

                  Lance doesn’t know what to think.

                  The water is getting cold, so Lance reluctantly turns the shower off, towels dry, and spends twice as long as normal on his skincare routine. He dresses in the first thing he finds—light blue sweatpants and a white long-sleeved shirt emblazoned with the Voltron logo. Then, when he can’t stall any longer, he takes a deep breath and heads downstairs.

                  Keith is sitting at the kitchen table, fully clothed, with hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. When Lance enters the kitchen, Keith glances in his direction; his face is unreadable, which drives Lance crazy. Does Keith even remember last night? Is he angry? Does… does he regret kissing Lance?

                  Wordlessly, Lance pours himself a cup of orange juice, grabs a bottle of Ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, and walks toward the living room couch. Just as he passes Keith’s chair, Keith says, “Lance, wait,” and Lance jolts to a halt, almost spilling his juice.

                  “Yeah?” he says casually, his heart racing.

                   “I… I want to talk about last night.”

                  “You? Want to talk?” Lance laughs lightly. “Now that’s rare.”

                  “God, I’m trying to handle this like an adult, okay? Just sit down,” Keith sighs, sounding exasperated. “And give me some of that Ibuprofen.”

                  Lance reluctantly sits in the chair next to Keith, sliding him the pill bottle. Keith pops a couple in his mouth, washing them down with a long sip of coffee. Then, his eyes staring into his coffee cup, he says, “I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

                  “You… you don’t remember?” Lance isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

                  Keith won’t look at Lance. “I do, but I don’t understand. Everything was blurry, and… I think I must be remembering it wrong.”

                  _Oh, God, he remembers the kiss._ Lance doesn’t know what to do. He should tell Keith that he remembers, too—ask if he meant it. But, if the answer’s ‘no’… Lance doesn’t know if he could handle knowing that the kiss, a moment that felt almost surreal in its impossibility and impossible in its ecstasy, meant nothing to Keith—a simple brush of lips, nothing more, a moment of weakness in a sea of rivalry. He taps his fingers on the side of his glass and says, cautiously, “You kissed me.”

                  Keith’s hands tighten around his mug. “And?”

                  Lance frowns. “And what?”

                  “I kissed you, and then what?”

                  Lance blinks at Keith, baffled. Does he think that they…? “Um. I’m pretty sure that was it.”

                  Keith sighs, a look of relief passing over his face. “Okay. That… that’s good.”

                  Hurt, sharp and biting, rushes through Lance, and before he can stop himself, he snaps, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

                  Keith looks shocked. “I just wanted to make sure we didn’t do something we would regret.”

                  Bitterly, Lance says, “You mean something that _you_ would regret.” God, he’s such an idiot, to think that Keith could actually _like_ him.

                  He pushes back from the table and stands, despite the throbbing in his temples that the action induces, and makes to go upstairs, when a hand wraps around his wrist, halting his movement. “Lance, wait,” Keith says. “I… I didn’t mean it like that.”

                  Lance pulls his wrist from Keith’s grasp, ignoring the tingling left by his touch. “Yes, you did. We were drunk, we kissed, and it was a mistake. I get it.”

                  “A mistake?” Keith stands too, his frown hardening into the beginnings of a glare. “That’s what you think it was?”

                  Lance throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know Keith, you tell me! _You’re_ the one who keeps pushing me away, insisting that you can’t stand me! So forgive me if I’m a little confused that you suddenly decided that you wanted to kiss me.”

                  “Yeah, well you said that you wanted me to!”

                  “Because _you_ said that you wanted to!”

                  “And I meant it!”

                  Lance’s mouth snaps shut. A heavy silence falls between them; Lance can hear Keith breathing heavily, his face still twisted into a glare of frustration. As the moments pass, the glare turns into something softer, more hesitant. “I… I meant it,” Keith says, softer, “but I can’t remember if you kissed me back, so I don’t know what else to say.”

                  “You… you did? Like, as a one-time-only thing, or…?”

                  “Lance, did you kiss me back or not?” Keith says, frustrated.

                  “Yeah, okay? I did.” Lance shrugs, his hands making an apologetic gesture. “Are you happy?”

                  “Almost.”

                  Keith crosses the space between them in two steps, and before Lance can process the movement, Keith’s lips are on his, his hands cupping Lance’s cheeks. Lance’s entire world collapses, shrinking until it’s all contained in the parts of him that are touching Keith, lighting him on fire and rendering his mind blank. His hands move unthinkingly to rest on Keith’s upper back, one wrapping around the back of his neck, where longer strands of hair tickle Lance’s fingers. Instinctively, Lance tugs gently on Keith’s hair, and a small gasp escapes Keith’s lips. It makes Lance’s insides melt. Before he knows it, they’re stumbling backward; Keith’s back knocks against the kitchen counter, stalling their movement, and Lance wastes no time lifting Keith onto the counter, angling his mouth upward to accommodate the new height difference. Keith’s fingers fist in Lance’s hair, tugging with an intensity that makes Lance’s skin tingle all over. Lance’s hands wander underneath Keith’s shirt, exploring the skin on his back, and Keith moans Lance’s name into his mouth, which is honestly the hottest thing Lance has ever experienced. It’s electric, and passionate, and everything Lance ever wanted. He never wants to stop; he’ll keep kissing Keith Kogane until the day he dies.

                  “Holy shit,” a small voice says, and Lance snaps violently back into the present like a rubber band stretched too far and then released. He jerks away from Keith like he’s been burned and turns quickly to see Hunk standing just inside the kitchen, his jaw practically touching the floor.

                  “Hunk,” Lance says, his voice an octave too high. He clears his throat; he can feel his face heating up, a flush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. “Um. What are you doing here?”

                  Hunk’s eyes dart back and forth between Keith and Lance. “I... I came to make sure you both were okay after last night. I still have a key…” He takes a shaky step back. “You know, I should have knocked. I’ll just… be going now, since you both seem… yeah. Okay, um… bye.”

                  Lance didn’t know Hunk could move so fast; one moment, he’s standing in the kitchen, and the next the front door is shutting with a _click_. For an excruciatingly long moment, it’s quiet; Lance feels frozen, disconnected from reality, still processing what just occurred.

                  Then, Keith mutters, “Fuck,” and the moment shatters. Lance practically sprints after Hunk, but when he wrenches the front door open, Hunk’s car is already disappearing around the corner, out of sight within seconds.

                  “ _Fuck_ ,” Lance breathes, running a hand through his hair. He stares at the road for a moment more, as if he can bring Hunk back by sheer force of will; then, reluctantly, he shuts the door and heads back to the kitchen, where Keith is pacing back and forth, one hand clasping the back of his neck.

                  When Keith catches sight of Lance, he stops pacing and leans heavily against the counter. Lance waits for him to say something; when it becomes clear that he’s not going to, Lance says, carefully, “I mean, it’s not really a big deal, right? Hunk’s our friend.”

                  Lance can see, by the way Keith pinches his nose and sighs, that Keith knows he’s right; but Keith shakes his head, dropping his hand and meeting Lance’s eyes. “Lance, we’re still figuring this thing out. We don’t even know what _this_ is yet.”

                  “Okay, okay. Fair.” Lance wants to ask what Keith thinks _this_ is, but he stops himself before he can. “I’ll call Hunk and talk to him.”

                  “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Keith seems distracted; his cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes dart away from Lance’s.

                  “Okay. Great.” Lance blows a breath through pursed lips. He stands in the kitchen for a few more seconds—maybe to see if Keith will say something, _anything_ else, or maybe just to _see_ Keith—before retreating upstairs.

                  If anything, Lance is even more confused now. Part of him is still riding the high of the kiss, willing to believe that anything is possible, but the rest of him is back to being rooted in doubt. Maybe… maybe Keith doesn’t want the same thing Lance wants. Maybe, now that they’ve _really_ kissed, Keith will decide that Lance isn’t a _I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-him_ person, but a _spend-a-few-weeks-with-and-then-move-on_ person. Lance is attracted to Keith, and Keith is attracted to him; but that doesn’t mean that Keith loves Lance the way Lance loves Keith. If he’s being honest with himself, Lance doesn’t even know how he loves Keith; he spent so much time trying to convince himself that he didn’t that the line is all muddied, and he doesn’t really know anything other than the fact that he thinks he might die if he doesn’t get to kiss Keith again. And again. And again.

                  Is that love? Or is it just lust? Lance isn’t sure he knows the difference; he doesn’t know if Keith does, either. Maybe they’re both just confusing attraction for something more.

                  Lance thinks his brain might implode if he thinks about it anymore, so he grabs his cellphone off his nightstand and calls Hunk. The phone rings and rings and rings, and Lance keeps expecting Hunk to pick up, but he doesn’t—not on the first attempt, not on the second, and not on the tenth. It hurts; Hunk has never avoided Lance before, and Lance can’t help but feel like he’s somehow ruined everything, with one kiss. It’s ridiculous and overdramatic, but he still can’t help but _feel_.

                   One kiss, and everything’s changed.

* * *

 

                  Lance doesn’t come back downstairs. Keith waits, the edge of the counter digging into his back, for what seems like hours, expecting Lance to come back, but he doesn’t. And honestly, Keith doesn’t know what he expected. Did he think that one kiss would change anything between them? Yeah right.

                  He can’t just sit here; he might go crazy thinking about what happened and what could have happened. So he grabs his keys and drives, not sure where he’s going until he finds himself parked outside his old house, staring at the black Ford Escape sitting in the driveway.

                  He can’t do this. He can’t run to Shiro, again, with his problems. He can’t—

                  Keith rings the doorbell. He stands there, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. After a few moments, the door opens, and the words Keith already has prepared die before he can open his mouth.

                  “Keith,” Allura says, sounding shocked. “Good morning.”

                  Keith is too stunned to be angry. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows, and manages to say, “Shiro. Is Shiro here?”

                  “He’s inside. Do you want to come in?”

                  Keith doesn’t know what he was thinking, coming here. Shaking his head, he takes a step back. “No. I have to… thanks, though, Allura.”

                  “Are you sure?” Allura steps outside, letting the door swing shut behind her. She brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes; this might be the first time Keith has seen her with her hair down—or in casual clothes, for that matter. “You seem troubled.”

                  “No, I just… had a question for Shiro, that’s all. I’ll ask him at work tomorrow.” Keith inches toward his car. “Good to see you.”

                  “You as well.” Allura looks like she wants to say something else, but before she can, the front door opens and Shiro steps outside.

                  “Keith, hey. I thought that was you. What’s up?”

                  Keith bites his lip. He brushes his thumb over the ridges of his car keys; he really should leave. Instead, he says, “I just have to talk to you.”

                  “Okay.” Shiro glances at Allura, who nods and heads back inside, one hand lingering on Shiro’s bicep as she passes. A pang of bitterness hits Keith, quickly followed by a lingering sense of shame. He’d been so absorbed in himself, in his own problems, that he didn’t even know Allura moved in.

                  Shiro leans against the railing of the porch, crossing his arms. “How are you feeling, after last night?”

                  “Fine.”

                  Keith hesitates; he’s not sure how to say what he wants to say, or even sure that he _should._ After a few moments of silence, Shiro uncrosses his arms and takes a step toward Keith. “Hey. You can talk to me about anything.” He places a comforting hand on Keith’s shoulder; without thinking, Keith leans into the touch. “I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I don’t want you to push me away, and I won’t push you to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Shiro pauses. “I’m sorry for forcing you to move out. I didn’t do it with the intention of Allura moving in so quickly, but her living situation hasn’t been ideal, so I offered to let her stay here.”

                  Somehow, despite everything, Keith remembers the bet between him and Lance. It’s like he’s there again: the cloying smell of butter, the way Lance’s fingers brushed lightly against his when he handed Keith the popcorn, the lightness between them, fleeting but enough to set Keith on the downward spiral to now. Maybe he never should have agreed to go with Shiro and Allura. Maybe he should have walked out the moment he saw Lance duck behind that rack of candy by the concession stand, his face ridiculously red.

                  He should have done a lot of things.

                  “So,” Keith says, pulling himself back to the present, “does that mean that you and Allura are together now? Isn’t it a bit shady to be dating your boss?”

                  “Okay, number one: dating a coworker hasn’t been taboo for at least ten years. And number two: this isn’t about me, this is about you. Don’t try to change the subject.”

                  “Hmm, so you are dating. Are you registered yet, or…?”

                  Shiro sends Keith a stern look. “Keith.”

                  “Okay, okay!” The smile that had been beginning to form falls from Keith’s lips, the weight of this morning’s events returning. “Okay.” He fiddles with his keys. “I just… something happened, and I don’t know what to do, but I don’t know why I came here, because I don’t know if I can talk about it.”

                  “Okay.” Shiro pauses for a moment. “Is this about last night?”

                  Keith tenses. “What about last night?”

                  “Well, yesterday was pretty hard on you, and when I dropped you off, you seemed out of it.” Shiro pauses, as if he’s not sure if he wants to say what he’s thinking. “Also, I saw you and Lance outside the bar.”

                  Keith sucks in a breath; it makes his lips tingle, and before he knows what he’s doing, he blurts, “I love him.”

                  Keith has never seen Shiro look as surprised as he does in this moment; his eyes are wide, and whatever speech he had prepared seems to have been completely lost. “You… Lance?”

                  Now that those three words are out in the open, the weight has lifted off Keith’s chest, and he feels like he can breathe again. “I was so afraid of it that I pushed him away, for so long, but this morning…” Keith meets Shiro’s eyes. “We kissed, but I don’t know if it meant to him what it meant to me. I… I don’t know what it meant to me, actually.” Keith bites his lip and stares at the ground. In a small voice, he says, “I’m still not ready to be married.”

                  “Oh, Keith.” The next thing Keith knows, Shiro’s arms are around him, grounding him. After a moment, Keith returns the embrace, and it’s like he’s six years old again, running into Shiro’s arms after his first day of school and swearing that he’s never going back, that the other kids won’t play with him, and Shiro assuring him that “they just don’t understand how cool you are yet.” It’s warm, and safe, and Keith never should have pushed him away.

                  “Have you talked to Lance yet?” Shiro asks, pulling back but keeping one hand on Keith’s forearm.

                  Keith stares at the ground. “I don’t know if he wants to talk.”

                  “He will, eventually.”

                  Softer, Keith says, “I don’t know if _I_ want to talk.”

                  “Keith, the only person who can tell you what Lance is feeling is Lance. Don’t make any assumptions until you’ve asked him.”

                  Keith nods, but fear still grips his stomach. “I just wish it hadn’t been like this,” he says, throat tight. “I wish we’d never been matched.”

                  Somehow, Shiro understands what Keith really means: that he wishes he hadn’t been forced to marry Lance, before he was ready, and that now he’s afraid they’ll never be able to start from the beginning. The soft looks, snuck when they thought the other wasn’t looking; the not-so-accidental hand touches; the eventual first date, leading to another, then another—they’ve bypassed all that, gone straight to ‘death-do-us-part’, and Keith doesn’t know if there’s room to fill in the blanks. Shiro looks at Keith, says, “I know,” and gives him another hug.

                  One kiss, and everything’s changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Sorry for the long hiatus, but I hope this chapter was good enough that it was worth the wait. With summer here, I hope to update more frequently, but I am taking summer classes, so we'll see ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. 
> 
> Also, I believe we're nearing the end--only a few more updates left! I appreciate all the support that y'all give me by commenting and leaving kudos, even when I haven't updated in months :) Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I made an edit to the previous chapter to fix a continuity error. Nothing serious or relevant to this chapter.

                  “Hunk, open the _fucking_ door.” Lance pounds his fist against the bright blue door, ignoring the _Do Not Disturb, By Appointment ONLY_ note scrawled in Pidge’s messy handwriting in the middle of the door. “I see your car in the driveway.” He pauses, listening; hearing no movement, Lance continues knocking, using both hands and occasionally his feet. “You’re my best friend, but I swear to _God_ , if you don’t let me in, I’ll—“

                  The door opens so suddenly that Lance cuts off with a yelp; he stumbles backward, off-balance, catching himself on the porch railing. “Jesus Christ.”

                  Hunk’s staring at the ground like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “What do you need, Lance?”

                  “Come on, Hunk, can we talk?” After a moment of silence, Lance jokes, “It’s not the worst thing you’ve caught me doing.”

                  “More like the weirdest.” Hunk steps aside. “Just- come inside, okay?”

                  Relief washes over Lance, although he’s not sure what he expected; he and Hunk have been through too much, seen too much together, for Hunk to let him down now. He follows Hunk into the living room, where Pidge is sitting on the couch, Killbot Phantasm I paused on the television screen behind them. They toss Lance a controller; he catches it reflexively. “Glad you could join us. You can take Hunk’s player; he was just going to start making lunch.”

                  Lance points the controller accusingly at Pidge. “It’s bad taste to brag about stealing both my best friend _and_ my personal chef, I hope you know that.”

                  “Yeah? I’m pretty sure it’s also bad taste to make out with your long-time rival and government-prescribed soulmate, but here we are.”

                  The rush of heat to Lance’s face is instantaneous and unwelcome. “That… is none of your business.” He glares at Hunk, who rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

                  “Sorry, man. It really freaked me out, so I had to tell someone.”

                  “Freaked _you_ out?” Lance jabs his finger into his chest. “ _I’m_ the one freaking out here!”

                  “Shouldn’t you be happy?” Pidge asks, turning and crossing their arms on the back of the couch. “This is what you wanted.”

                   “No,” Lance counters, if only to disagree. He pauses, unsure. “Yes? I don’t know.”

                  Hunk gently takes the controller out of Lance’s hand, like taking a small object away from a baby. “You should sit down.”

                  Lance nods, collapsing on the couch next to Pidge. He buries his face in his hands, trying to decipher the stuttering of his heart, what it all means. After a moment, the couch dips on the other side of him, and a warm, strong hand rests on his shoulder. “Look. Why don’t you just… start from the beginning, and Pidge and I will help any way we can.”

                  Lance sits up and takes a shallow breath. “Okay. It started last night—or maybe before that…”

                  He makes his way through the story in fits and starts; one moment, he’s sure of the way he felt when Keith tugged on his hair _just like that, fuck yes_ —and the next he’s not even sure it happened at all. Maybe this whole thing is a big fucking cosmic joke, a huge middle finger in the general direction of Lance McClain. _Fuck you_ , it says, _for ever thinking it would be this easy._ It can’t be that easy. There has to be a catch; there’s always a catch.

                   “Lance, I think you’re overthinking this,” Pidge says finally, once Lance takes a break to breathe. “Keith kissed you. You’re married. It seems pretty cut-and-dry to me.”

                  “Pidge, does anything about this scream _cut-and-dry_ to you?” Lance gestures absently. “It’s _far_ from cut-and-dry. It’s… it’s intact-and-wet.”

                  “Ew,” Hunk says.

                  Lance ignores him. “I know I sound like teenager in some young adult novel, but _come on_ , guys. It’s _Keith_. He’s hostile, just yesterday morning he wanted nothing to do with me, and the whole thing seemed more like a release of pent-up sexual frustration than true love’s kiss.”

                  Pidge sighs. “I don’t know why I still ask, because I already know the answer, but did you _talk_ to Keith about it?”

                  Lance huffs and crosses his arms. “…No.”

                  “God, _get out_ of my house and please, for my sanity, _talk_ to him.” Pidge pushes at Lance’s arm. “I bet you my entire life savings that it’ll fix everything.”

                  “Well, you’ve only been alive for, like, ten years, so that’s not a very appealing offer.”

                   “You’d be surprised how much money ten-year-old me had. Also, if you’re still sitting here in five seconds, I will eject you from this seat.” Pidge holds up a small remote with handwritten labels. “Literally.”

                  “Okay, okay!” Lance scurries off the couch. “Jesus, you’re a fucking public menace, you know that? Threatening someone as vulnerable as me.”

                  “Hunk, do you hear something? It sounds like Lance, which is weird, since he’s supposed to be gone, busy taking our _excellent_ advice.”

                  “Rude!”

* * *

 

                  But Lance doesn’t go home. He gets all the way to their driveway, sees Keith’s car parked in front of the garage, and he can’t do it. So he goes to the movies. He splurges and gets a ticket to the 4-D holographic showing of the newest horror movie, _Blackout_. He’s never been a big fan of horror; he usually leaves the theatre shaking and spends the next two weeks sleeping with the lights on. But right now, he feels kind of numb, and he thinks maybe the movie will shock him back into a normal state of mind.

                  Of course, he gets popcorn, with extra butter. When he settles into his seat, near the middle and behind the wheelchair area so he can prop his feet up on the railing, his arm settles on the armrest and, for a moment, he can almost feel Keith’s presence, sitting too close yet not close enough. He quickly draws his arm close to himself. He just… needs some time to think. To sort everything out.

                  The movie starts, and it’s horrifying. The screen is completely black, illuminated only briefly by flashes of light; the story is articulated through sound—the footsteps that echo around Lance, the sudden screams, the frightened dialogue—and touch—the hand that grips Lance’s thigh, the breath that ghosts over the back of his neck, the sudden chill that overtakes the theatre. It’s like he’s there, like he’s the one being stalked and chased through the black nothingness.

                  Lance leaves the theatre, his hands shaking almost too badly to accurately place his empty popcorn bucket in the trash can. He shuts himself in his car and just breathes; he can still feel invisible hands on him, and he thinks that maybe a horror movie wasn’t such a good idea after all. But his heart is beating fast, and the fear has ebbed away to make way for a plethora of other emotions.

                  He feels… happy. It’s a bit of a shock, but it’s there. Every time Lance’s thoughts stray to Keith, to the memory of kissing him, running his hands through Keith’s hair and lifting him onto the counter, his stomach flutters with a million butterflies. The corners of his mouth turn up, almost against his will, and he rests his forehead on the top of the steering wheel, trying to contain the joy he feels bubbling up inside him, so intense it nears hyperventilation.

                  Keith kissed him. Maybe he’s still riding the adrenaline from the movie, but he can’t seem to remember why anything else matters. Keith kissed him, said he wanted to, kissed him passionately, like he lived and died by Lance’s mouth. Like kissing Lance was better than food, money, or anything imaginable. Like he’d wanted this far longer than Lance could possibly fathom.

                  Like he loves Lance.

                  This thought, unbidden and intrusive, almost immediately snaps Lance out of his delirious trance. He sits up, suddenly feeling much more awake. Does Keith love him? Like, in a permanent, for-the-rest-of-our-lives way? It doesn’t seem possible.

                  Lance starts his car and begins the drive home, the same thought rolling over and over in his mind: What if Keith does love him, at least a little? What then? Do they go on, like a happy married couple, or do they start over? It doesn’t feel right, to be married to Keith; it feels like, even though they’ve known each other for years, they’ve just met. After all, Lance barely knows _anything_ about Keith, and Keith knows nothing about him. Where was Keith born? What’s his favorite color? Favorite food? Favorite childhood memory? Favorite _anything?_ What are his hobbies? What types of movies does he like? Does he watch movies at all? How old was he when he lost his first tooth? When he rode a bike for the first time? When he was adopted? What was his favorite subject in school? Least favorite? Did he like school or did he hate it? Did he participate in any extracurricular activities? Did he have any friends? Any boyfriends or girlfriends?

                  Lance compiles a mental list of questions the entire drive home, and when he pulls into the driveway, he’s struggling to remember even half of them. It’s overwhelming, the amount he doesn’t know, and it’s hard to believe that they could be matched at all when they’ve been effectively strangers since they met.

                  When Lance walks through the door, the smell of Mexican spices hits him, underlain by the faint scent of smoke. He kicks off his shoes and cautiously enters the kitchen, where Keith is standing over the stove, his forehead furrowed in concentration as he stirs a large pan of vegetables and beef strips. Lance isn’t sure that Keith sees him at first, but when Keith reaches for one of the plastic spice containers strewn across the counter, his eyes lock on Lance. After a moment of tense silence, Keith looks back at the pan and shakes a liberal amount of orange powder onto the vegetables.

                  Lance can only stand a few more moments of silence. “Hey,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. “Do you think we could—?”

                  “Can you grab the tortillas?” Keith interrupts, gesturing vaguely at the counter behind him. “And some plates?”

                  Confused, Lance says, “Yeah, okay,” and turns to get the tortillas. When he turns back, he almost bumps into Keith, who wordlessly takes the tortillas and plates from him and starts to assemble fajita plates. Lance isn’t really sure how to proceed, so he stands a few steps back from Keith, shifting his weight back and forth nervously, until Keith turns back around, a plate in each hand, and starts walking to the kitchen table.

                  “Keith,” Lance tries again, “I really need to—“

                  “Are you coming?” Keith says, like he hadn’t even heard Lance.

                  Lance sighs, feeling the happiness of the movie theatre slowly leak out of him, and sits across the table from Keith. He wraps some of the vegetables and meat in a tortilla and takes a cautious bite. A myriad of flavors explode across his tongue, well-balanced with more than a hint of spice; he swallows and says, surprised, “This is really good. Like _really_ good.”

                  “Thanks,” Keith mumbles, his plate still untouched in front of him. Lance doesn’t expect him to continue, but after a short pause, Keith says, “I used to live next door to a family that had immigrated from Mexico, and they taught me how to cook—mostly Mexican food, but other things, too.”

                  Lance stops mid-bite. Slowly, he lowers his tortilla, as if any sudden movement would scare Keith away. “Um. Yeah, it’s really… authentic.”

                  “Yeah.” Keith looks down at the table, his eyebrows furrowed—in thought or in discomfort, Lance can’t tell. “A lot of things were authentically Mexican by the border. My dad and I, we kind of stood out, being Korean and all.”

                  “Your… dad?”

                  Keith’s hands close into tight fists. “He died when I was five.”

                  “Oh,” Lance says quietly. He has a million questions— _Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do?_ —but when he opens his mouth, he says, “I’m really sorry, Keith.”

                  “Yeah, well, it was a long time ago.” Keith stares at the table for a moment before meeting Lance’s eyes, a small smile stretched across his lips. “But thank you.”

                  Lance’s heart stutters at that smile, and he picks up his tortilla again in an attempt to ground himself. He wants to know more— _needs_ to know more—but he’s afraid that if he asks, Keith will withdraw again and he’ll be back at square one. Still, he can’t help himself from saying, “I didn’t know you grew up on the border. I’m surprised you don’t speak Spanish.”

                  Keith’s smile morphs into a smirk. In Spanish, he says, “Oh, I speak Spanish. Fluently, actually.” At Lance’s expression of shock, he adds teasingly, “ _Cariño_.”

                  Lance feels a blush spreading up his neck, and he tries to will it away. “Oh yeah?” he counters in Spanish. “Well, my first _language_ was Spanish—Cuban Spanish, actually, so good luck keeping up, _gabacho._ ”

                  “I think after spending my entire childhood with a Hispanic best friend, I can keep up.”

 _A best friend. Hmm._ Lance adds the information to the slowly growing knowledge he has about Keith. “Yeah? _I_ grew up with three generations of native speakers in the same house, in a country that speaks Spanish, attending a Spanish-speaking school, and _dreaming_ in Spanish! So there!”

                  Keith raises his hands in defeat. In English, he says, “Okay, okay, you win.” The corners of his eyes are crinkled, his mouth formed into a wide grin, and Lance can sense the laughter barely contained under the surface. All at once, Lance is transported back to that day—the day when Keith drank the anti-gravity potion, and he smiled, and Lance was lost forever. It’s like it’s happening all over again—except now Keith is sitting at his kitchen table, and they’re talking, and they’re married. God, they’re married.

                  For the first time, Lance thinks that that might not be such a bad thing, after all.

                  Involuntarily, Lance’s socked foot reaches out underneath the table, searching until it bumps against Keith’s. A small gasp escapes Keith’s lips; his foot jerks back reflexively, and Lance’s heart stops beating for a moment— _Oh, God, he totally misread the situation, shit—_ before, tentatively, Keith brings his foot back. He wraps his foot around Lance’s so their ankles touch, and Lance honestly thinks he might die, in this moment. He looks at Keith, and Keith looks back, his eyes wide and lips slightly parted. “Lance…” he says, like a gasp, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what, like he just needs to say Lance’s name. Slowly, Lance leans forward. Every inch closer to Keith he gets feels like a mile; he doesn’t even register Keith’s movement until they’re nose-to-nose in the middle of the table. Tentatively, Keith raises a hand. He reaches for Lance’s face, like he wants to cup Lance’s cheek, but he hesitates halfway there, his fingers curling slightly. “I was such an asshole,” he says softly, turning his face slightly away from Lance’s. “I don’t know why you put up with it.”

                  “What can I say?” Lance shrugs. “It’s kind of a turn-on.”

                  The corners of Keith’s mouth turn up slightly. “Hmm, I’ll remember that for the future.” Then, he tenses, his face falling again. “Do… do we have one?”

                  “One what?”

                  Keith turns his head so he’s face-to-face with Lance again, his dark blue eyes searching Lance’s imploringly, a little cautiously. “A future.”

                  “I mean, I’m game if you are.”

                  Keith nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. I’m game.”

                  “Hmm, how romantic,” Lance mumbles. Then, he closes the gap between them, pressing his lips gently to Keith’s. He feels Keith’s hand come up to cradle his cheek, and Lance breathes a soft sigh across Keith’s lips, smiling a little when Keith lets out a small gasp. He pulls away slightly after a few seconds, his lips still tingling and his heart beating a million miles a minute, and says, “Your food is getting cold.”

                  “And your elbow is in yours.”

                  Lance recoils, bending his arm back to see the orange stain spreading across his shirt sleeve. “Oh, great. Just great.”

                  Keith laughs, leaning back in his chair. Lance pouts, cradling his arm to his stomach. “It’s not funny! I like this shirt.”

                  “It’s a little funny.”

                  With a huff, Lance stands. “I’m going to change.”

                  He makes it a few steps from the table when Keith says, “Lance, wait.” When Lance turns back, Keith is standing too, his eyes flitting from Lance’s face to the ground and back again. “I am… sorry. About everything. I… I was afraid that if I didn’t push you away, that I might… you know, and that you wouldn’t feel the same, but I just made it worse.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And I just, I couldn’t ignore it anymore, so at the wedding, when you were going to kiss me, I—I panicked. I didn’t know what to do—I thought I wouldn’t be able to control myself, and that you would… I don’t know! That you would push _me_ away, I guess. I tried _so hard_ not to fuck this up, but I think I did anyway, and I just need you to understand that.” Keith cuts off abruptly, his chest heaving slightly, like he’s physically exhausted. Quieter, he says, “But I want this. Whatever _this_ is, I want it. I’m not ready to be your husband, Lance, but I’m sure as hell ready to work my way up to it.” He pauses, like he needs a break; Lance isn’t sure if he’s supposed to fill in the silence, but he doesn’t know if he could if he tried. His mind is reeling, his stomach a twisted knot of disbelief, his tongue useless in his mouth. After a few moments, Keith looks at Lance, his eyes falling just below Lance’s. His voice breaking slightly, he says, “Can… can you please say something?”

                  Lance opens his mouth, closes it, and swallows heavily. Suddenly, so many things make sense: the back-and-forth between almost-affection and brutal hostility, the overheard phone conversation, the weird skittishness anytime Lance mentioned the word “marriage.” The time after the bar, when Keith took care of Lance while he was hung over, and the heated argument that night. The chocolate apology, and Hunk telling Lance that Keith was making an effort with him despite tons of evidence indicating the contrary. The day at work, when Lance announced their wedding date, when Pidge told him that “ _usually when Keith seems angry he’s actually something else_.” It’s all coming together, and while it doesn’t make any of it hurt any less, at least Lance _understands_. At least, he thinks he understands. Keith certainly doesn’t make it easy.

                  Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Lance formulates his thoughts enough to say, “ _You_ thought _I_ would push you away? God, Keith, I thought you hated me! I tried _so fucking hard_ not to like you, but I just…” Lance throws his hands in the air. “Every time I thought I’d gotten over you, you just had to fucking _smile_ or whatever. It was infuriating! And the whole time, you _liked_ me? God, why… Why do you have to be so…?” He gestures vaguely to Keith. “So… you know, tall and grizzled and shit?” He deflates a bit, his shoulders slumping. “I thought I was stupid for still liking you, after everything. How was I supposed to know?”

                  Keith stares at Lance, his eyes wide. “You… the whole time you… liked me?”

                  Lance flushes red. “Jesus, yes, okay? You make it sound like we’re sixteen-year-olds confessing our crushes or something.”

                  “Do you… do you still feel that way?”

                  “Keith, I just poured my entire fucking soul out to you. We played footsie under my kitchen table. What do you think?”

                  Keith swallows. His face is slowly turning red; this may be the most unhinged Lance has ever seen him, and it’s part unsettling, part thrilling. “I don’t know what to think,” he says quietly. “I get so afraid that people will leave me that I just—I put up these walls, so I can push them away before they get the chance to, but you’re… still here.”

                  “Yup. Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Lance winks, because underneath all the seriousness and heart-to-hearts, he can feel raw elation rising to the surface, threatening to burst, because Keith _likes_ him. Maybe… maybe even _loves_ him. It’s more than Lance could ever hope for, but here it is, and Lance didn’t even know how much doubt was lurking within him until it’s gone, suddenly, leaving behind only uncontainable joy.

                  Keith’s flush grows. “Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at Lance, his eyes sparkling with _something_ —that same something Lance has been seeing in them since the beginning. He thinks he might finally know what it is. “So, where does this leave us?”

                  “Well, as the leading expert on all things romantic, I’m pretty sure we skipped a few steps on the relationship timeline. Maybe… we should start with a date? Friday night, after work?”

                  Keith’s entire face is tomato-red now, his eyes flicking to the floor, and Lance honestly thinks he could get used to this Keith—a softer Keith, more vulnerable, hidden underneath layers of self-protection that Lance still, somehow, impossibly, loves just as much as what hides within them. “Yeah, I’d like that.” He looks up at Lance, and a corner of his mouth turns up. “Until then?”

                  Somehow, it feels like an invitation, and Lance gladly accepts, stepping toward Keith and pulling him in. When their lips meet, it’s like the first time, and also like the thousandth time. There’s a fire there, so intense it makes Lance gasp, and a familiarity that guides the movement of Lance’s mouth against Keith’s. It’s passionate, and tender, and everything Lance has ever wanted, before he even knew what he was looking for.

                  He loves Keith. And now that he finally has him, he’s never letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter definitely reads like a last chapter, but because I'm extremely self-indulgent and because I feel like it needs more (and I still have two more chapters, at least, vaguely outlined) there will be a couple more chapters still! This chapter took forever to write (particularly after the new information presented in Season 6) and I kept re-writing it because I didn't like it, so I hope you liked the final product!


	12. Chapter 12

                  When Keith walks into the lab the next morning, Lance following closely behind, he’s nearly hit by a ceramic coffee mug that hurtles past his ear. Judging by the yelp of surprise and pain, Lance isn’t so lucky. “Hey!” Lance yells, elbowing past Keith with one hand pressed against his forehead. “What the hell?”

                  Pidge grins sheepishly from across the room. “Sorry, Lance. How was I supposed to know you were going to walk in at that exact moment?”

                  “Walk in on what, exactly?” Keith asks, frowning at the small, cylindrical device clutched in Pidge’s hand.

                  “We’re testing Pidge’s new invention!” Hunk says, his grin nearly as large as Pidge’s. “It’s a compact propulsion device. We thought it might come in handy as a weapon, or perhaps as part of the uniforms for the lions’ pilots. Pretty awesome, right?”

                  “Not awesome!” Lance shrieks, removing his hand and pointing at the growing red spot on his right temple. “You could’ve killed me!”

                  “But… you’re not dead, so I would say test successful?” Pidge says.

                  “I couldn’t agree more, Pidge,” Hunk says, holding up his hand for a high-five.

                  “You are the worst best friends _ever_!” Lance grumbles, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of the holograph table.

                  “Uh huh,” Pidge says, sounding unconvinced. Their grin transforms into a small smirk, and they side-eye Keith. “Hey, Keith. How was your weekend?”

                  Keith isn’t sure how he’s supposed to respond, but judging by the devious look on Pidge’s face, there’s no right answer. “…Fine,” he says, beginning to swipe through the lions’ blueprints. “Did you make any changes to the infrastructure of the lions?”

                  Pidge shrugs. “Lance and I made a few tweaks last week. Nothing major. So, you feeling okay today? I imagine you were prett-y hungover Sunday morning.”

                  “Never felt better. Can you send me a copy of the new blueprints so Hunk and I can integrate them into our current plans?”

                  “One step ahead of you, Keith.” Pidge gives the blueprints an idle flick and they shoot off into space. “So nothing of interest, _at all_ , happened yesterday? Just a totally normal, uneventful, run-of-the-mill Sunday in the Kogane-McClain household?”

                  “Yup. Is Shiro here yet? I want to discuss the timeframe for construction with him.”

                  “I’m sure he’s around. Speaking of Shiro, your face is getting red.”

                  Keith scowls, aware that his cheeks have slowly become hotter and hotter. “No, it’s not. How is that even related to Shiro?”

                  “Because he’s standing in the doorway right now.”

                  Keith whips around, his face full-on flaming red, to see Shiro leaning against the doorframe, Allura standing almost out of sight behind him. “Good morning team,” Shiro says, pushing away from the wall and walking into the lab. He looks at Keith, then at Lance where he’s practically melted into the floor beside Keith. “Keith. Lance.”

                  “Hey, Shiro,” Pidge says. “Think fast!”

                  They press a button on the propulsion device, and another coffee cup from the table flies across the room. Without breaking composure, Shiro takes a small step to the left and lets the cup sail past his ear, through the door, and into Allura’s waiting hand. She steps through the doorway and takes a sip of the coffee. “Thank you, Pidge.”

                  “Man, that’s not fair!” Lance points accusingly at Pidge. “You made it easier for them!”

                  “Whatever you say, Lance.”

                  Lance looks like he’s about to snatch the propulsion device right out of Pidge’s hand. However, Allura steps forward, setting the coffee down on the table and swiping the blueprints back into existence. “Team, today marks the beginning of the greatest technological advancement in modern aerospace history. We’ve received the necessary funds from our investor and are ready to begin the construction process. I believe the blueprints we have now are sufficient to begin work on the internal framework of the lions. Once we receive the necessary material for the outer frame, we can move on to that. Hunk and Pidge are still working on the program for the lions’ interfaces, but I trust that by the time the framework is completed, the AI will be ready for installment. Keith and his team will handle the flight mechanisms as well as the necessary accommodations that will enable the lions to alter their shape in order to merge into a singular, humanoid entity. Lance and his team will ensure that the lions will be able to withstand any conditions in outer space and will work on the space-time compression technology Pidge suggested in order to expedite space travel. Shiro will be overseeing each aspect of the construction process as well as assisting Coran and me with the business details. After these lions are completed, there will be no galaxy in the universe we cannot access.” Allura surveys the room, her eyes fierce and unyielding. “My father would have been proud to see such a talented group of men and women taking on his project. This company was everything to him, and the idea for intergalactic space travel ships was his last great dream. To see it come to fruition would have meant everything to him, and it means everything to me.” Allura swipes a hand across the hologram, transforming it into a view of the entire known universe, millions of stars and planets and other cosmic entities shining in front of them. “Today, it begins. Team, let’s form Voltron!”

                  “Yeah!” Keith says, in unison with his team, the holographic stars glittering in front of them, full of endless possibility. This is everything Keith has ever wanted and more: the stars, at his fingertips, ever since he was a child looking at the wide-open Texas sky and now closer than ever; the lions, mechanical feats of engineering and willing subjects for Keith to program and wire, quite possibly the biggest electrical challenge he’ll ever face but also the greatest thrill; the team, Hunk with his comforting words and engineering wisdom, Pidge with their quick-witted humor and fierce determination, Allura with her unwavering strength and infallible leadership, Coran with his quick wit and unpredictable quirks, Shiro with his steadfast loyalty and his uncanny ability to pick Keith up even from the lowest of places, and Lance. Lance, his mile-a-minute chatterbox coworker. Lance, with his mocking blue eyes and smug lips. Lance, with his penchant for stupid ideas and even bigger penchant for stupid ideas that _work_.

                  Lance, whose fingers brush against Keith’s as the team clusters around the table, flicking through diagrams and assigning tasks. Lance, whose hand slides into Keith’s like it was always meant to be there, whose fingers tangle with Keith’s and squeeze tightly. Lance, who brushes his thumb in light circles against Keith’s, every movement like a shock of electricity against Keith’s skin.

                  Lance, his rival, his coworker, his housemate, his friend, his husband, his government-prescribed soulmate, and quite possibly the first and last person Keith will ever love. He squeezes Lance’s hand tightly. He loves Lance. And now that he finally has him, he’s never letting go.

* * *

 

                  The week flies by, and before Lance knows it, he’s walking out the door of Altean Innovations, Inc. that Friday, Keith by his side, Pidge and Hunk bidding him goodbye as they walk to Hunk’s car. Lance slides into the passenger seat of Keith’s car, his heart thudding slightly too fast in his chest.

                  It’s not like he has anything to worry about, really. This week was nice—more than nice, much more. Though Lance didn’t see Keith much during work—Lance spent most of his time in the lab, working on Pidge’s maniacal space-time compression program, while Keith spent his time in the workshop—they spent most of their time outside of work together. Lance has resigned most of the cooking responsibility to Keith, so he sat at the kitchen table, staring intently at the blueprints he’d brought home, while Keith turned their kitchen into an aromatic cloud of spices. They fought over what show to watch Monday night—“Keith, you _know_ I like cooking shows as much as the next guy, but I’ve been _dying_ to start Riverdale.” “The Great British Baking Show is more than just a cooking show, Lance!”—and over what car to take to work—“Mine is more fuel efficient, Keith!” “Yeah, but mine is cooler.” “More obnoxious does _not_ mean cooler.” Keith dragged Lance along on one of his way-too-early morning runs—“It’ll be fun, Lance, I promise.”—which was the first and last time Lance is ever waking up before six-thirty in the morning. In retaliation, Lance convinced Keith to come to his Zumba class—“Hey, if you’re going to make me do _your_ kind of exercise, you can at least try _my_ kind.”—and spent an hour and half trying not to laugh at a red-faced, flailing Keith—“Shut up, Lance, I’m trying!” “I didn’t say anything!” When Lance drove his family to the airport early Tuesday morning, Keith came along, earning meaningful looks from his father that Lance stubbornly ignored.

                  He’s also kissed Keith exactly 17 times since Sunday. Each time, he thinks he’ll be used to it—the softness of Keith’s lips, the rush of exhilaration that makes seconds feel like hours, the warmth that radiates between them—but each time he’s lost in the sensation all over again. If anything, every kiss leaves Lance more and more disoriented, like he’s slowly cracking apart. Maybe it’s because with each kiss, Keith softens even more; he smiles more often, lets his hand brush against Lance’s in passing, stands closer to Lance when they’re talking. Every bit of liking Keith that Lance had pushed away for weeks comes back, full force, sevenfold, overwhelming him and leaving him breathless. He’s sure—never been surer—that this is what he wants, now and forever.

                  But he still feels his palms get clammy when Keith parks outside the Balmera Café, the soft light filtering out through the windows illuminating a few patrons seated at small round wire tables. Keith cuts the engine, and a heavy silence fills the vehicle. Lance swallows, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. “Cool. Great. Let’s go get a table.”

                  He reaches for the door handle, but a hand on his arm stops him. “Lance. Are you nervous?”

                  Lance laughs, maybe a little too loud. “Nervous? Me? Why would I be nervous? I’m the king of first dates. And, you know, second and third dates, because I’m so good at first dates.”

                  A corner of Keith’s mouth turns up. “You _are_ nervous.”

                  “You… no! Just… let’s go, before the tables fill.”

                  Lance reaches for the door again, but Keith’s hand, still on Lance’s arm, squeezes gently. “You don’t… you don’t need to be nervous.” Keith looks away, his forehead furrowed slightly. “I know this is all messed up and that we still have a long way to go before it’s not, but I want to be here. With you. I promise.”

                  Lance swallows again, this time for an entirely different reason. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

                  Keith hesitates a moment, then lets go of Lance’s arm. Lance opens the car door and gets out; with Keith following close behind, Lance opens the door to the café. A line of bells hanging from the top of the door jingles, and a woman around Lance’s age rounds the corner with a stack of menus in her arms. “Welcome to the Balmera Café!” she says cheerily. “Table for two?”

                  “Yes, please,” Lance says, his mouth a little dry.

                  “Great, just follow me.” She leads them into the back corner, setting two menus down at a small round table with a white tea candle flickering in the center. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

                  “Thanks,” Lance says as she walks away. He instinctively reaches for Keith’s chair, meaning to pull it back for him, but he hesitates at the look of confusion that flashes across Keith’s face. “Sorry,” Lance says, retracting his hand quickly. “Habit.”

                  The confusion on Keith’s face quickly transforms into surprise. “No, it’s… it’s fine. It’s sweet.”

                  Lance is glad that the café has low lighting, because he can feel a blush slowly spreading across his cheeks. “Do you want me to…?”

                  “Let’s just sit,” Keith says quickly.

                  “Yeah, great idea.” Lance slides into his chair, trying to will away the vibrant embarrassment and sense of wrongness overtaking him. Nothing’s really _wrong_ —at least, not yet—but he’s still filled with the shaky nervousness that usually accompanies a situation close to disaster. He supposes he’s just never had a first date like this—where he really cared about the outcome.

                  “So,” Keith starts, but he’s interrupted by the server, a stocky woman with her hair clustered in tight buns on top of her head, approaching their table.

                  “Good evening,” she says in a light southern accent, pulling a pencil and notepad from her apron. “My name is Merida, and I’ll be taking care of y’all tonight. Can I get y’all anything to drink?”

                  Lance looks down at his menu, searching for the drinks, when he hears Keith say, “A bottle of the Willow Creek Merlot, please.”

                  Lance glances at Keith in surprise; he already has his menu closed and hands it to their server. “I’ll also have the blackened salmon with a side of seasonal vegetables.”

                  “Excellent choice.” The server takes Keith’s menu, then looks expectantly at Lance. Realizing he hasn’t even looked at his menu yet, Lance frantically scans the options until he sees something familiar.

                  “Yeah, and I’ll have the, um, hamburger with fries.”

                  The server smiles and takes Lance’s menu. “Great. I’ll have your wine out shortly—“

                  “Actually,” Keith interrupts, “I’ll have the burger and fries too.” He looks a little unsure, his eyes cast away from Lance. “Please.”

                  “No problem.” The server scribbles something down on her notebook, smiles again, and walks away.

                  Lance squints at Keith, who’s still inspecting the table like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen all week. After a few moments of excruciating silence, Lance says, “So, you like… hamburgers?” _God, what a stupid thing to say._

                  Keith fiddles with the cloth-wrapped silverware in front of him. “Yeah, I guess. You?”

                  “Yup.” Lance drums his fingers on the table top, purses his lips. A few more moments pass; in the background, glasses clink and someone shouts something intelligible. “Hmm.” Lance searches for something to say and comes up empty—not something he’s used to. Eventually, he settles on, “Are they, like, your _favorite_ food, or…?”

                  Keith shrugs. “I guess. I like the ones from McDonald’s a lot.”

                  Lance wrinkles his nose. “The actual hamburgers or the ones that always come out squished?”

                  “Hey, they’re _all_ actual hamburgers.”

                  “Um, I’m pretty sure they’re not. Can’t you leave them sitting around for, like, a year and still eat them?”

                  “Yup,” Keith says, with a smirk that clearly says that he has done exactly that.

                  Lance points accusingly at Keith. “You’re disgusting. I hope you know that.”

                  “Says the person who ate American cheese sandwiches for three meals straight two days ago.”

                  “That’s different!”

                  “How?”

                  “Bread goes bad.”

                  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

                  “Says you.”

                  Keith laughs, and Lance’s heart flutters in his chest. “Is this what you usually talk about on dates? Bad eating habits?”

                  “I can’t say it’s ever come up.”

                  “Hmm.” Keith looks at the table, then at Lance, his face soft and eyes questioning. “Then what _do_ you usually talk about?”

                  “Oh, you know, the usual.”

                  Keith blinks at Lance. “Which is…?”

                  Lance squints at Keith. “I dunno, hobbies and likes and dislikes and stuff. You’ve been on dates before, right?”

                  Suddenly, Keith is back to fiddling with the silverware. “It never really… felt like the right time.”

                  Lance blinks. “Oh.” He guesses that answers the question about any previous relationships.

                  “Yeah.” Keith rubs his thumb over the edge of the cloth, unfolding and refolding it. “I guess I just didn’t really see the point. I figured I would just wait and, once I turned 25, everything would sort itself out.”

                  “Oh,” Lance repeats, softer. “Keith—“

                  “And it did.” Keith looks up at Lance, his fingers stilling. “I’m glad I waited.”

                  Lance swallows, his heart rate increasing under the intensity of Keith’s stare. “…Oh.”

                  Keith smiles softly, and Lance practically melts. “So, hobbies and stuff? I’m not sure if this qualifies since I hardly do it anymore, but I like to paint.”

                  “Oh?” Lance really should say something else, but he really doesn’t know what else to say.

                  “Yeah. I actually painted the canvases that I brought with me when I moved.”

                  Lance gapes at him. “The ones in the hallway? I assumed you bought those at, like, an art show or something.”

                  “Nah, they’re not _that_ good. Like I said, just a hobby.”

                  “’Not that good?’ Dude, they’re awesome!” Lance gasps. “You should paint me! Like, I’ll lay on the couch or something and pose for you.”

                  Keith sighs. “I’m not doing a naked painting of you, Lance.”

                  “I mean, I didn’t say _anything_ about being naked, but if you insist…”

                  Keith interrupts quickly, “So what do you do? As a hobby?”

                  Lance frowns and drums his fingers on the table. “I guess… when I still lived in Cuba, I liked to surf? But I can’t really do that anymore since I moved here. I do sometimes go water skiing on Lake Erie, when Pidge takes us out on their boat.”

                  “Oh, cool. Shiro tried to teach me how to surf when I was younger, but I was never very good at it.”

                  “Well,” Lance says, “maybe I could help you? I was pretty good at it.”

                  “Yeah,” Keith says quietly, offering Lance a soft smile. “I’d like that.”

                  Their food arrives twenty minutes later, and in that time, Lance finds out more about Keith than he ever thought possible. He gets the sense that Keith doesn’t like to share personal details, so he’s shocked when Keith reveals the vast majority of his childhood to Lance. He never knew his mother and was raised by his father, a firefighter, until his father passed away in a firefighting accident when he was five. He spent just under a year in a foster home before Shiro’s parents decided to foster him, then adopt him just after he turned eight. Even though he had a temper—“ _Had_ a temper?” Lance interrupts teasingly, earning a glare from Keith—Shiro was always there for him, encouraging him to pursue a college education. “Shiro’s the reason why I joined team Voltron,” Keith says. “When he left his job training pilots at the Garrison Flight Academy and moved here, I knew I had to follow him. Besides, Altean Innovations is the leading research corporation in space technology—I’ve wanted to work here ever since I can remember.” Lance also finds out that Keith’s favorite color is red—unsurprising—that his favorite band is My Chemical Romance—“What? They’re so _old_ , and not the good kind of old music!” “Oh, like Beyoncé is any better.” “How _dare_ you disrespect the single best artist of the 2010s?”—and his favorite animal is a hippopotamus, which makes no sense until Keith informs him that they’re, in fact, very dangerous.

                  After they finish their food, the sit and slowly empty the bottle of wine, and Lance tells Keith about himself. How his favorite color is blue, and how his favorite animal is a shark. How he grew up in Cuba in a house where you had to be loud to be heard at all, and how he first met Hunk when Hunk’s family moved into the house next door to his when he was seven. How he and Hunk would spend the entire summer at the beach, exploring the coves and cliffs and, later, working as lifeguards. How, when he told Hunk he was applying to a university in the United States and that he planned to leave Cuba for good, Hunk stared him straight in the eye and said, “I’m going with you.” How he and Hunk met Pidge during their second semester, when they took a general level physics lab together and had Pidge as their lab partner. How, when Hunk and Pidge got internships the summer after their junior years at Altean Innovations, Lance congratulated them and smiled, but spent the entire summer delivering pizzas alone. How Hunk and Pidge got job offers immediately after graduation and funding from Altean Innovations to complete their master’s degrees, while Lance managed to secure a partial scholarship to complete his master’s degree at a university in New York. How, near the end of his master’s, Hunk called him, breathlessly excited, to say that there was an opening in a new research team, that he’d recommended Lance, and that they wanted him to come in for an interview. How he walked into his first day of work, still amazed that he’d managed to get a spot on team Voltron, and met Keith.

                  “I knew about Shiro,” Lance says. “A lot of the professors at my university talked about him, since he’s practically leading the top space research team in the country, and I kind of idolized him. Of course, I already knew Pidge and Hunk. You were the only person I knew nothing about.”

                  Keith takes a sip of his wine. “I remember that day. You practically asked Allura to marry you.”

                  Lance flushes red. “I did _not_! I just… flirted, a little. Anyway, it’s not like that anymore. I realized it wasn’t going to happen a long time ago.” He takes a large gulp of wine. “Hunk and Pidge talked about you, you know. I think they used the words ‘impulsive’ and ‘reserved,’ maybe in the same sentence.”

                  “I’m pretty sure you also used those words.” Keith looks down into his wine glass. “I never really understood why you decided that we were rivals.”

                  “Why _I_ decided?” Lance gapes at Keith. “I didn’t decide that! You did! You know, when you kept… being awesome, at everything that _I_ was supposed to be good at.”

                  “What?” Keith frowns. “I’m an engineer and a programmer, Lance. You’re a physicist. We don’t even do the same things.”

                  “Yeah, but…” Lance frowns too, thinking back. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t quite pinpoint the moment when he and Keith became rivals; one day they weren’t, and the next they were. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “I guess… I just always assumed you didn’t like me, so I acted accordingly.”

                  “Hmm.” Keith finishes his glass of wine. “I always assumed _you_ didn’t like _me._ Also, I didn’t know you very well, and you came off kinda…”

                  Lance bites his lip, staring at the table. “Annoying. I know.”

                  “I was going to say ‘excitable.’” Keith reaches for the wine bottle, finds it empty, and sets it back down with a sigh. “You seemed so comfortable with the team, and with yourself, I guess I maybe… was a little… jealous.”

                  Lance nearly chokes on his wine. “You? Were jealous of _me_?”

                  “Don’t rub it in, Lance.”

                  “No, no, I—I was jealous of you! I thought _you_ were the self-assured one, and that _I_ didn’t fit with the team.” Lance laughs, setting down his empty wine glass. “I guess that’s why I liked you so much.”

                  Keith looks a little shocked; then, his mouth twitches into a smirk. “Aw, you had a crush on me? That’s embarrassing.”

                  “Keith, we’re married.”

                  Later that night, after they’ve paid the bill at the café and returned home, Lance has just set his glasses down on his nightstand when he hears Keith say, “Lance?”

                  Lance turns to see Keith in the doorway, wearing sweatpants and a gray shirt and his hair pulled into a low ponytail. He takes a few steps inside Lance’s room then pauses. “I just wanted to say that… I had a good time tonight.”

                  “Yeah,” Lance says, “me too.”

                  “Okay.” Keith looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he just says, “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

                  Keith moves to turn around, and almost instinctively, Lance says, “Keith, wait.” After Keith stops, he says, “Come here.”

                  Slowly, Keith approaches Lance. He stops just shy of him, his eyes flitting from the ground to Lance’s face then to the ground again. Lance holds up his left hand. “Do you see this?”

                  Keith frowns. “Do I see… your hand?”

                  “No, you idiot, my ring.” For extra emphasis, Lance points at the gold band on his finger.

                  “Oh.” Keith swallows. “Yeah. So?”

                  “Just so we’re on the same page.” Lance starts ticking off his fingers. “We live together, we’re married, and we’re now officially dating. Yes?”

                  “Lance, do you have a point, or—“

                  “We don’t need separate bedrooms,” Lance says, all in one breath. He wiggles his fingers in front of Keith’s face. “We can share a bed. Unless you don’t want to…?”

                  Keith glances at the bed behind Lance, then at Lance. “I don’t know,” Keith says slowly, and Lance’s heart drops to the bottoms of his feet. “What if you snore?”

                  “What?” Lance manages. His heart flies back up into place, and he scowls, but there’s no heat behind it. “Man, not funny! You almost gave me a fucking heart attack.”

                  Keith laughs, leaning forward to give Lance a quick kiss. “Yes, Lance, I want to “share a bed” with you. What a weird way to ask someone to have sex with you.”

                  “What! That’s not what I meant!”

                  “Kidding, kidding. You don’t actually snore though, right?”

                  “Oh my God, just get in the bed.”

* * *

 

**Three and a Half Weeks Later**

                  Keith stumbles downstairs 43 days after his 25th birthday to the smell of burning toast and a letter on the kitchen table. The toast is normal; Lance has taken to trying to cook breakfast, and he hasn’t quite figured out how to toast bread in the oven. The letter isn’t, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Keith feels like he’s been thrown back in time, that maybe _today_ is his 25 th birthday and he’s just woken up from the weirdest dream of his life. Keith’s stomach flips as he picks up the letter and turns it in his hands, watching the gold of the government seal glint in the light.

                  “Morning,” Lance says, squinting at the charred toast in front of him before dumping both pieces into the trash. “That’s for both of us, but I figured I’d wait until you got out of the shower to open it.”

                  Keith doesn’t say anything; he just stares at the letter. He already knows what’s inside, but he still feels a thrill of anticipation when he rips the envelope open and slides the paper out.

                  “It’s the notification of the termination of our one-month probationary period, right?” Lance asks, his voice next to Keith’s ear as he leans over Keith’s shoulder to read the letter. “Hmm. I would’ve thought they would just send a holomessage or something. It’s not really the kind of earthshattering revelation that warrants a letter.”

                  “Lance,” Keith says, setting the letter down on the table and turning to face Lance, “do you want to get a divorce?”

                  “What?” Lance steps back, shock and hurt flashing across his face. “No. Why would you say that?”

                  “No, that’s not—ugh, I’m sorry.” Keith pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I meant. I love you, Lance. I just… for the past month, we’ve been forced to conduct our relationship the way some bureaucratic institution wants us to. We’ve only been dating for a month, but we’re already married, and I just… I wanted to know if you wanted to get divorced, do this right, and then if we want to, eventually, we can get remarried.”

                  “Oh my God, sometimes I wonder why I love you.” Lance runs a hand through his hair. “Marriage is just a word, Keith—it doesn’t really mean anything unless you give it meaning. We don’t have to go through the hassle of getting divorced and re-married in order to take this at our own pace, because we can do everything as a married couple that we could do as just a regular couple. And, for the record, even if marriage _did_ somehow change anything, I _still_ wouldn’t divorce you.”

                  Keith blinks, shocked. “You wouldn’t?”

                  “Of course not! I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If I’ve figured anything out in the past month, it’s that.”

                  “Me too—of course I do. I just—“

                  “Then it’s simple.” Lance takes Keith’s hand and deftly slides the ring off it, ignoring Keith’s protests. He cups it in his hands, drops to one knee, and opens his hands like a ring box to reveal Keith’s ring sitting in his palm. “Keith Kogane-McClain, will you continue to be married to me?”

                  Keith gapes at Lance, at the ring in his hands. “Oh my God, you really _are_ one of those cheesy, romantic guys, aren’t you?”

                  “That’s not an answer.”

                  Keith smiles softly. “Lance Kogane-McClain, I will continue to be married to you.”

                  Lance stands and slides the ring back on Keith’s finger, then holds Keith’s hand up in the air triumphantly. “He said yes!”

                  “Oh my God, just kiss me already.”

                  And when Lance kisses him, it’s like he can finally touch the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you to all of you who supported me with your comments, your kudos, and your willingness to wait months and months for updates. Every bit of feedback means so much to me :)
> 
> That said, there's one more bit of information that I couldn't work into the last chapter but, in light of the SDCC events, I'd like to include. If you don't want season 7 spoilers, don't read past this point.  
> .  
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> Since there was a bit of a blind spot regarding Shiro's first match, I decided to work in Adam because Shiro being revealed as gay is such a big deal to the LGBT community and to me.
> 
> When Shiro was 23, he got his match letter in the mail informing him that Adam was his match. He’d never even heard of him, so he got in contact with him using the contact info provided in the letter and found out that Adam lived in the central part of Texas, working at the Garrison Flight Academy. They met and immediately felt a connection; they got married, and Shiro—who was a business and aerospace engineering major in college but had his pilot’s license from his teenage years—decided to work at the Garrison Flight Academy with Adam. Everything was great for four years, but then, when Shiro was 27, he got invited to lead the new research team at Altean Innovations after one of the pilots he’d trained was hired by the company to test drive their hoverbikes and spoke highly of him. This was the opportunity of a lifetime for Shiro—he’d heard of Altean Innovations from Keith and from the news, and he knew that if he went to lead the team, he could provide Keith with inroads and help him achieve his lifelong dream. He told Adam that he wanted to go, that he wanted Adam to move to New York with him, but Adam couldn’t leave his family and his career behind and said that if Shiro left, he would have to leave Adam too. Shiro left, and within the year, they were officially divorced. 
> 
> *Since LM has confirmed Shiro to be a gay man, I also included a workaround for the Shallura in this fic, but if you still ship Shallura and don't want to read it, it's fine. The Shallura in this fic is pretty minor, anyway.*
> 
> Every time Keith has brought up Allura, Shiro pretends to be interested because he doesn’t want Keith to know that he still misses Adam, especially since if Keith knew that Shiro missed Adam, he might push Shiro to leave team Voltron, and Shiro can’t go now. Allura did have an interest in Shiro, but when Shiro asked her to move in (because her previous match kept showing up at her house unannounced, despite the restraining order, and she no longer felt safe) he stressed that he didn’t want a relationship with her but he didn’t want her to act weird around him or Keith because of that, and she agreed
> 
> So that's it! Sorry for the last-minute plot alterations, but I really wanted to represent Shiro's sexuality accurately since I felt I could work it into the existing plot structure. Thanks for reading!


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